And so, living long and longer
In a past that lived no more, my eyes discerned there, suddenly,
That a figure broke the skyline—first in vague contour, then stronger,
And was crossing near to me.
Some long-missed familiar gesture,
Something wonted, struck me in the figure’s pause to list and heed,
Till I fancied from its handling of its loosely wrapping vesture
That it might be She indeed.
’Twas not reasonless: below there
In the vale, had been her home; the nook might hold her even yet,
And the downlands were her father’s fief; she still might come and go there;—
So I rose, and said, “Agnette!”
With a little leap, half-frightened,
She withdrew some steps; then letting intuition smother fear
In a place so long-accustomed, and as one whom thought enlightened,
She replied: “What—that voice?—here!”
“Yes, Agnette!—And did the occasion
Of our marching hither make you think I might walk where we two—”
“O, I often come,” she murmured with a moment’s coy evasion,
“(’Tis not far),—and—think of you.”
Then I took her hand, and led her
To the ancient people’s stone whereon I had sat. There now sat we;
And together talked, until the first reluctant shyness fled her,
And she spoke confidingly.
“It is just as ere we parted!”
Said she, brimming high with joy.—“And when, then, came you here, and why?”
“—Dear, I could not sleep for thinking of our trystings when twin-hearted.”
She responded, “Nor could I.
“There are few things I would rather
Than be wandering at this spirit-hour—lone-lived, my kindred dead—
On this wold of well-known feature I inherit from my father:
Night or day, I have no dread . . .
“O I wonder, wonder whether
Any heartstring bore a signal-thrill between us twain or no?—
Some such influence can, at times, they say, draw severed souls together.”
I said, “Dear, we’ll dream it so.”
Each one’s hand the other’s grasping,
And a mutual forgiveness won, we sank to silent thought,
A large content in us that seemed our rended lives reclasping,
And contracting years to nought.