At twilight here I sit alone,
⁠Yet not alone; for thoughts of thee,—
Pale images of pleasure flown,—
⁠Like homing birds, return to me.

Again the shining chestnut braids
⁠Are soft enwreathed about thy brow,
And light—a light that never fades—
⁠Beams from thine eyes upon me even now,

As, all undimmed by death and night,
⁠Remembrance out of distance brings
Thy youthful loveliness, alight
⁠With ardent hope and high imaginings.

Ah, mortal dreams, how fair, how fleet!
⁠Thy yearnings scant fulfilment found;
Dark Lethe long hath laved thy feet,
⁠And on thy slumber breaks no troubling sound;

Yet distance parts thee not from me,
⁠For beauty—or of twilight or of morn—
Binds me, still closer binds, to thee,
⁠Whose heart sang to my heart ere I was born.