In the grey gloaming where the white moth flies— When I, quiet dust on the forgetful wind, Shall be untroubled by any breath of sighs— It may be I shall fall like dew upon The still breath of grey pastures such as these Wherein I wander now 'twixt dusk and dawn. See, in this phantom bloom I leave a kiss: It was given me in fire; now it is grey dust: Mayhap I may thrill again at the touch of this. |