Haunting

There is no peace amid the moonlight and the pines; Deep in the windless gloom the lamplike thought of you Abides; and ah, what burning memories pursue My heart among the pallid marbles! . . . Night assigns Your silver face for wardress of the doors of sleep; Beyond the wilder bourns of dreamland flown, your eyes Are amber planets on the ultimate lost skies; Moonlike and dim, you wander ever in the deep Which is the nethermost unknowable abyss Of my own soul, and in its night your spirit lives. Shall I not find the very draught that Lethe gives Salt with your tears, and sweet with savor of your kiss?