Ever the thought of her abides with me
Unceasing as the murmur of the sea;
When the round moon is low and night-birds flit,
When sink the stubble-fires with smouldering flame,
Over and o'er the sea-wind sighs her name,
And the leaves whisper it.

"Poor Vespertilia," sing the grasses sere,
"Poor Vespertilia," moans the surf-beat shore;
Almost I feel her very presence near—
Yet she comes nevermore.