We cannot see you standing at the door,
Or passing through the gloom;
We strain our ears, yet hear your step no more
In the familiar room.
And seeing not—but waiting, with a numb,
Bewildered heart and brain,
And hearing not—but only winds that come
And wail against the pane,
And dreaming of you in some brighter sphere,
We—we, too—grieve and fret
That you, whom still we hold so dear, so dear,
Should all so soon forget.
THE MASTER OF SHADOWS
Into the western waters
Slow sinks the sunset light,
And the voice of the Wind of Shadows
Calls to my heart to-night—
Calls from the magic countries,
The lost and the lovely lands
Where stands the Master of Shadows,
Holding the dreams in his hands.
All the dreams of the ages
Gather around him there,
Visions of things forgotten
And of things that never were.
Birds in the swaying woodlands,
Creatures furry and small,
Turn to the Master of Shadows
And he gives of his dreams to all.
Lo! I am worn and weary,
Sick of the garish light;
Blow, thou Wind of the Shadows,
Into my heart to-night.