When like a rose that shakes its leaves apart,
Her garments rustled close his chair beside.
And yet he knew it not. The angel face
Bent close above his own. So doth the moon
Sometimes, unseen, bend from her heavenly place,
To kiss a flower that falls asleep too soon.
“Awake, my friend,” I said, “too soon you sleep;
An angel figure stands beside your chair,
And I alone the sacred vigil keep.”
But as he woke, she vanished into air.