The Lost Name

THE voice of my true love is low
And exquisitely kind,
Warm as a flower, cold as snow—
I think it is the Wind.

My true love’s face is white as mist
That moons have lingered on,
Yet rosy as a cloud, sun-kissed—
I think it is the Dawn.

The breath of my true love is sweet
As gardens at day’s close
When dew and dark together meet—
I think it is a Rose.

My true love’s heart is wild and shy
And folded from my sight,
A world, a star, a whispering sigh—
I think it is the Night.

My true love’s name is lost to me,
The prey of dusty years,
But in the falling Rain I see
And know her by her tears!