From any passing chance, even like those clouds
That caught the tenderest thrill of dying day,
When, by some inward sense, I know not what,
I felt that I was gazed at, drawn away
By eyes that had a strange magnetic will.
And so I turned from those far hills to see—
A stranger? No; even then he did not seem
A stranger, but as one I once had known,
Not here in Florence, not in any place,
But somewhere in my spirit known and seen.