Villanelle
In every sound, I think I hear her feet—
And still I wend my altered way alone,
And still I say, “To-morrow we shall meet.”
I watch the shadows in the crowded street—
Each passing face I follow one by one—
In every sound I think I hear her feet.
And months go by-bleak March and May-day heat—
Harvest is over—winter well-nigh done—
And still I say, “To-morrow we shall meet.”
Among the city square when flowers are sweet,
With every breath a sound of her seems blown—
In every sound I think I hear her feet.
Belfry and clock the unending hours repeat
From twelve to twelve—and still she comes in none—
And still I say, “To-morrow we shall meet.”
Oh, long delayed to-morrow!—hearts that beat
Measure the length of every minute gone—
In every sound I think I hear her feet.
Ever the suns rise tardily or fleet,
And light the letters on a churchyard stone,—
And still I say, “To-morrow we shall meet.”
And still from out her unknown far retreat
She haunts me with her tender undertone—
In every sound I think I hear her feet,
And still I say, “To-morrow we shall meet.”
May Probyn.