AS a white moon comes to a lonely cloud, Dark with the grief of many unshed tears, She came to me; and even as that orb She flooded me with light and then passed on, Leaving my darkness greater than before. Now all my days are like a miser's hand, Counting the secret wealth of that rich hour When her sweet presence I knew. The memory fades not With hurry of the hours but gathers beauty From my sad musing's wonder. I have seen Her once in all these empty years: she passed As any stranger, and yet farther away Than any stranger could be. Nothing to her Was that warm pledge she gave a winter's night Under the constant stars, nor those sweet hours We walked in the cool moonlight of a dream, Whose waking came too soon, too sadly soon. Springs have come with their pale flood of green, And summers with their darker, deeper tides, And winters have washed white three times the world Since that amazing hour, and many a day Have I rejoiced in power of my forgetting, Yet only to fall back on my remembrance, And find it easier to suffer than forget. |