Romance
Of old, on her terrace at evening …not here…in some long-gone kingdom O, folded close to her breast!…
—our gaze dwelt wide on the blackness (was it trees? or a shadowy passion the pain of an old-world longing that it sobb’d, that it swell’d, that it shrank?) —the gloom of the forest blurr’d soft on the skirt of the night-skies that shut in our lonely world.
…not here…in some long-gone world…
close-lock’d in that passionate arm-clasp no word did we utter, we stirr’d not: the silence of Death, or of Love… only, round and over us that tearless infinite yearning and the Night with her spread wings rustling folding us with the stars.
…not here…in some long-gone kingdom of old, on her terrace at evening O, folded close to her heart!…