Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

One night, as oft, he lay and could not sleep. His soul was like an empty darkened room, Through which strange pictures pass from the outer world; While regnant will lay passive and looked on. But the eye-tube through which the shadows came Was turned towards the past. One after one Arose old scenes, old sorrows, old delights. Ah God! how sad are all things that grow old; Even the rose-leaves have a mournful scent, And old brown letters are more sad than graves; Old kisses lie about the founts of tears, Like autumn leaves around the winter wells; And yet they cannot die. A smile once smiled Is to eternity a smile--no less; And that which smiles and kisses, liveth still; And thou canst do great wonders, Wonderful!

At length, as ever in such vision-hours, Came the bright maiden, riding the great horse. And then at once the will sprang up awake, And, like a necromantic sage, forbade What came unbidden to depart at will. So on that form he rested his sad thoughts, Till he began to wonder what her lot; How she had fared in spinning history Into a psyche-cradle, where to die; And then emerge--what butterfly? pure white, With silver dust of feathers on its wings? Or that dull red, seared with its ebon spots? And then he thought: "I know some women fail, And cease to be so very beautiful. And I have heard men rave of certain eyes, In which I could not rest a moment's space." Straightway the fount of possibilities Began to gurgle, under, in his soul. Anon the lava-stream burst forth amain, And glowed, and scorched, and blasted as it flowed. For purest souls sometimes have direst fears, In ghost-hours when the shadow of the earth Is cast on half her children, from the sun Who is afar and busy with the rest. "If my high lady be but only such As some men say of women--very pure When dressed in white, and shining in men's eyes, And with the wavings of great unborn wings Around them in the aether of the souls, Felt at the root where senses meet in one Like dim-remembered airs and rhymes and hues; But when alone, at best a common thing, With earthward thoughts, and feet that are of earth! Ah no--it cannot be! She is of God. But then, fair things may perish; higher life Gives deeper death; fair gifts make fouler faults: Women themselves--I dare not think the rest. And then they say that in her London world, They have other laws and judgments than in ours." And so the thoughts walked up and down his soul, And found at last a spot wherein to rest, Building a resolution for the day.

But next day, and the next, he was too worn With the unrest of this chaotic night-- As if a man had sprung to life before The spirit of God moved on the waters' face, And made his dwelling ready, who in pain, Himself untuned, groaned for a harmony, For order and for law around his life-- Too tired he was to do as he had planned. But on the next, a genial south-born wind Waved the blue air beneath the golden sun, Bringing glad news of summer from the south. Into his little room the bright rays shone, And, darting through the busy blazing fire, Turning it ghostly pale, slew it almost; As the great sunshine of the further life Quenches the glow of this, and giveth death. He had lain gazing at the wondrous strife And strange commingling of the sun and fire, Like spiritual and vital energies, Whereof the one doth bear the other first, And then destroys it for a better birth; And now he rose to help the failing fire, Because the sunshine came not near enough To do for both. And then he clothed himself, And sat him down betwixt the sun and fire, And got him ink and paper, and began And wrote with earnest dying heart as thus. "Lady, I owe thee much. Nay, do not look To find my name; for though I write it here, I date as from the churchyard, where I lie Whilst thou art reading; and thou know'st me not. I dare to write, because I am crowned by death Thy equal. If my boldness should offend, I, pure in my intent, hide with the ghosts, Where thou wilt never meet me, until thou Knowest that death, like God, doth make of one.

"But pardon, lady. Ere I had begun, My thoughts moved towards thee with a gentle flow That bore a depth of waters. When I took My pen to write, they rushed into a gulf, Precipitate and foamy. Can it be, That death who humbles all hath made me proud? Lady, thy loveliness hath walked my brain, As if I were thy heritage in sooth, Bequeathed from sires beyond all story's reach. For I have loved thee from afar, and long; Joyous in having seen what lifted me, By very power to see, above myself. Thy beauty hath made beautiful my life; Thy virtue made mine strong to be itself. Thy form hath put on every changing dress Of name, and circumstance, and history, That so the life, dumb in the wondrous page Recording woman's glory, might come forth And be the living fact to longing eyes-- Thou, thou essential womanhood to me; Afar as angels or the sainted dead, Yet near as loveliness can haunt a man, And taking any shape for every need.

"Years, many years, have passed since the first time, Which was the last, I saw thee. What have they Made or unmade in thee? I ask myself. O lovely in my memory! art thou As lovely in thyself? Thy features then Said what God made thee; art thou such indeed? Forgive my boldness, lady; I am dead; And dead men may cry loud, they make no noise.

"I have a prayer to make thee--hear the dead. Lady, for God's sake be as beautiful As that white form that dwelleth in my heart; Yea, better still, as that ideal Pure That waketh in thee, when thou prayest God, Or helpest thy poor neighbour. For myself I pray. For if I die and find that she, My woman-glory, lives in common air, Is not so very radiant after all, My sad face will afflict the calm-eyed ghosts, Not used to see such rooted sadness there, At least in fields where I may hope to walk And find good company. Upon my knees I could implore thee--justify my faith In womanhood's white-handed nobleness, And thee, its revelation unto me.

"But I bethink me, lady. If thou turn Thy thoughts upon thyself, for the great sake Of purity and conscious whiteness' self, Thou wilt but half succeed. The other half Is to forget the first, and all thyself, Quenching thy moonlight in the blaze of day; Turning thy being full unto thy God; Where shouldst thou quite forget the name of Truth, Yet thou wouldst be a pure, twice holy child, (Twice born of God, once of thy own pure will Arising at the calling Father's voice,) Doing the right with sweet unconsciousness; Having God in thee, a completer soul, Be sure, than thou alone; thou not the less Complete in choice, and individual life, Since that which sayeth _I_, doth call him _Sire._

"Lady, I die--the Father holds me up. It is not much to thee that I should die; (How should it be? for thou hast never looked Deep in my eyes, as I once looked in thine) But it is much that He doth hold me up.

"I thank thee, lady, for a gentle look Thou lettest fall upon me long ago. The same sweet look be possible to thee For evermore;--I bless thee with thine own, And say farewell, and go into my grave-- Nay, nay, into the blue heaven of my hopes."

Then came his name in full, and then the name Of the green churchyard where he hoped to lie. And then he laid him back, weary, and said: "O God! I am only an attempt at life. Sleep falls again ere I am full awake. Life goeth from me in the morning hour. I have seen nothing clearly; felt no thrill Of pure emotion, save in dreams, wild dreams; And, sometimes, when I looked right up to thee. I have been proud of knowledge, when the flame Of Truth, high Truth, but flickered in my soul. Only at times, in lonely midnight hours, When in my soul the stars came forth, and brought New heights of silence, quelling all my sea, Have I beheld clear truth, apart from form, And known myself a living lonely thought, Isled in the hyaline of Truth alway. I have not reaped earth's harvest, O my God; Have gathered but a few poor wayside flowers, Harebells, red poppies, closing pimpernels-- All which thou hast invented, beautiful God, To gather by the way, for comforting. Have I aimed proudly, therefore aimed too low, Striving for something visible in my thought, And not the unseen thing hid far in thine? Make me content to be a primrose-flower Among thy nations; that the fair truth, hid In the sweet primrose, enter into me, And I rejoice, an individual soul, Reflecting thee; as truly then divine, As if I towered the angel of the sun. All in the night, the glowing worm hath given Me keener joy than a whole heaven of stars: Thou camest in the worm more near me then. Nor do I think, were I that green delight, I'd change to be the shadowy evening star. Ah, make me, Father, anything thou wilt, So be thou will it; I am safe with thee. I laugh exulting. Make me something, God; Clear, sunny, veritable purity Of high existence, in itself content, And in the things that are besides itself, And seeking for no measures. I have found The good of earth, if I have found this death. Now I am ready; take me when thou wilt."

He laid the letter in his desk, with seal And superscription. When his sister came, He said, "You'll find a note there--afterwards--. Take it yourself to the town, and let it go. But do not see the name, my sister true-- I'll tell you all about it, when you come."

And as the eve, through paler, darker shades, Insensibly declines, and is no more, The lordly day once more a memory, So died he. In the hush of noon he died. Through the low valley-fog he brake and climbed. The sun shone on--why should he not shine on? The summer noises rose o'er all the land. The love of God lay warm on hill and plain. 'Tis well to die in summer.

When the breath, After a long still pause, returned no more, The old man sank upon his knees, and said: "Father, I thank thee; it is over now; And thou hast helped him well through this sore time. So one by one we all come back to thee, All sons and brothers, thanking thee who didst Put of thy fatherhood in our poor hearts, That, having children, we might guess thy love. And at the last, find all loves one in thee." And then he rose, and comforted the maid, Who in her brother lost the pride of life, Weeping as all her heaven were full of rain.

When that which was so like him--so unlike-- Lay in the churchyard, and the green turf soon Would grow together, healing up the wounds Of the old Earth who took her share again, The sister went to do his last request. Then found she, with his other papers, this,-- A farewell song, in lowland Scottish tongue:--

Greetna, father, that I'm gaein'.
For fu' weel ye ken the gaet.
I' the winter, corn ye're sawin'--
I' the hairst, again ye hae't.

I'm gaein' hame to see my mither--
She'll be weel acquant or this,
Sair we'll muse at ane anither,
'Tween the auld word an' new kiss.

Love, I'm doubtin', will be scanty
Roun' ye baith, when I'm awa';
But the kirk has happin' plenty
Close aside me, for you twa.

An' aboon, there's room for mony--
'Twas na made for ane or twa;
But it grew for a' an' ony
Countin' love the best ava'.

Here, aneath, I ca' ye father:
Auld names we'll nor tyne nor spare;
A' my sonship I maun gather,
For the Son is King up there.

Greetna, father, that I'm gaein';
For ye ken fu' weel the gaet:
Here, in winter, cast yer sawin'--
There, in hairst, again ye hae't.

What of the lady? Little more I know. Not even if, when she had read the lines, She rose in haste, and to her chamber went, And shut the door; nor if, when she came forth, A dawn of holier purpose shone across The sadness of her brow; unto herself Convicted; though the great world, knowing all, Might call her pure as day--yea, truth itself. Of these things I know nothing--only know That on a warm autumnal afternoon, When half-length shadows fell from mossy stones, Darkening the green upon the grassy graves, While the still church, like a said prayer, arose White in the sunshine, silent as the graves, Empty of souls, as is the tomb itself; A little boy, who watched a cow near by Gather her milk from alms of clover fields, Flung over earthen dykes, or straying out Beneath the gates upon the paths, beheld All suddenly--he knew not how she came-- A lady, closely veiled, alone, and still, Seated upon a grave. Long time she sat And moved not, "greetin' sair," the boy did say; "Just like my mither whan my father deed. An' syne she rase, an' pu'd at something sma', A glintin' gowan, or maybe a blade O' the dead grass," and glided silent forth, Over the low stone wall by two old steps, And round the corner, and was seen no more. The clang of hoofs and sound of carriage wheels Arose and died upon the listener's ear.

THE HOMELESS GHOST.

Still flowed the music, flowed the wine.
The youth in silence went;
Through naked streets, in cold moonshine,
His homeward way he bent,
Where, on the city's seaward line,
His lattice seaward leant.

He knew not why he left the throng,
But that he could not rest;
That something pained him in the song,
And mocked him in the jest;
And a cold moon-glitter lay along
One lovely lady's breast.

He sat him down with solemn book
His sadness to beguile;
A skull from off its bracket-nook
Threw him a lipless smile;
But its awful, laughter-mocking look,
Was a passing moonbeam's wile.

An hour he sat, and read in vain,
Nought but mirrors were his eyes;
For to and fro through his helpless brain,
Went the dance's mysteries;
Till a gust of wind against the pane,
Mixed with a sea-bird's cries,
And the sudden spatter of drifting rain
Bade him mark the altered skies.

The moon was gone, intombed in cloud;
The wind began to rave;
The ocean heaved within its shroud,
For the dark had built its grave;
But like ghosts brake forth, and cried aloud,
The white crests of the wave.

Big rain. The wind howled out, aware
Of the tread of the watery west;
The windows shivered, back waved his hair,
The fireside seemed the best;
But lo! a lady sat in his chair,
With the moonlight across her breast.

The moonbeam passed. The lady sat on.
Her beauty was sad and white.
All but her hair with whiteness shone,
And her hair was black as night;
And her eyes, where darkness was never gone,
Although they were full of light.

But her hair was wet, and wept like weeds
On her pearly shoulders bare;
And the clear pale drops ran down like beads,
Down her arms, to her fingers fair;
And her limbs shine through, like thin-filmed seeds,
Her dank white robe's despair.

She moved not, but looked in his wondering face,
Till his blushes began to rise;
But she gazed, like one on the veiling lace,
To something within his eyes;
A gaze that had not to do with place,
But thought and spirit tries.

Then the voice came forth, all sweet and clear,
Though jarred by inward pain;
She spoke like one that speaks in fear
Of the judgment she will gain,
When the soul is full as a mountain-mere,
And the speech, but a flowing vein.

"Thine eyes are like mine, and thou art bold;
Nay, heap not the dying fire;
It warms not me, I am too cold,
Cold as the churchyard spire;
If thou cover me up with fold on fold,
Thou kill'st not the coldness dire."

Her voice and her beauty, like molten gold,
Thrilled through him in burning rain.
He was on fire, and she was cold,
Cold as the waveless main;
But his heart-well filled with woe, till it rolled
A torrent that calmed him again.

"Save me, Oh, save me!" she cried; and flung
Her splendour before his feet;--
"I am weary of wandering storms among,
And I hate the mouldy sheet;
I can dare the dark, wind-vexed and wrung,
Not the dark where the dead things meet.

"Ah! though a ghost, I'm a lady still--"
The youth recoiled aghast.
With a passion of sorrow her great eyes fill;
Not a word her white lips passed.
He caught her hand; 'twas a cold to kill,
But he held it warm and fast.

"What can I do to save thee, dear?"
At the word she sprang upright.
To her ice-lips she drew his burning ear,
And whispered--he shivered--she whispered light.
She withdrew; she gazed with an asking fear;
He stood with a face ghost-white.

"I wait--ah, would I might wait!" she said;
"But the moon sinks in the tide;
Thou seest it not; I see it fade,
Like one that may not bide.
Alas! I go out in the moonless shade;
Ah, kind! let me stay and hide."

He shivered, he shook, he felt like clay;
And the fear went through his blood;
His face was an awful ashy grey,
And his veins were channels of mud.
The lady stood in a white dismay,
Like a half-blown frozen bud.

"Ah, speak! am I so frightful then?
I live; though they call it death;
I am only cold--say _dear_ again"--
But scarce could he heave a breath;
The air felt dank, like a frozen fen,
And he a half-conscious wraith.

"Ah, save me!" once more, with a hopeless cry,
That entered his heart, and lay;
But sunshine and warmth and rosiness vie
With coldness and moonlight and grey.
He spoke not. She moved not; yet to his eye,
She stood three paces away.

She spoke no more. Grief on her face
Beauty had almost slain.
With a feverous vision's unseen pace
She had flitted away again;
And stood, with a last dumb prayer for grace,
By the window that clanged with rain.

He stood; he stared. She had vanished quite.
The loud wind sank to a sigh;
Grey faces without paled the face of night,
As they swept the window by;
And each, as it passed, pressed a cheek of fright
To the glass, with a staring eye.

And over, afar from over the deep,
Came a long and cadenced wail;
It rose, and it sank, and it rose on the steep
Of the billows that build the gale.
It ceased; but on in his bosom creep
Low echoes that tell the tale.

He opened his lattice, and saw afar,
Over the western sea,
Across the spears of a sparkling star,
A moony vapour flee;
And he thought, with a pang that he could not bar,
The lady it might be.

He turned and looked into the room;
And lo! it was cheerless and bare;
Empty and drear as a hopeless tomb,--
And the lady was not there;
Yet the fire and the lamp drove out the gloom,
As he had driven the fair.

And up in the manhood of his breast,
Sprang a storm of passion and shame;
It tore the pride of his fancied best
In a thousand shreds of blame;
It threw to the ground his ancient crest,
And puffed at his ancient name.

He had turned a lady, and lightly clad,
Out in the stormy cold.
Was she a ghost?--Divinely sad
Are the guests of Hades old.
A wandering ghost? Oh! terror bad,
That refused an earthly fold!

And sorrow for her his shame's regret
Into humility wept;
He knelt and he kissed the footprints wet,
And the track by her thin robe swept;
He sat in her chair, all ice-cold yet,
And moaned until he slept.

He woke at dawn. The flaming sun
Laughed at the bye-gone dark.
"I am glad," he said, "that the night is done,
And the dream slain by the lark."
And the eye was all, until the gun
That boomed at the sun-set--hark!

And then, with a sudden invading blast,
He knew that it was no dream.
And all the night belief held fast,
Till thinned by the morning beam.
Thus radiant mornings and pale nights passed
On the backward-flowing stream.

He loved a lady with heaving breath,
Red lips, and a smile alway;
And her sighs an odour inhabiteth,
All of the rose-hued may;
But the warm bright lady was false as death,
And the ghost is true as day.

And the spirit-face, with its woe divine,
Came back in the hour of sighs;
As to men who have lost their aim, and pine,
Old faces of childhood rise:
He wept for her pleading voice, and the shine
Of her solitary eyes.

And now he believed in the ghost all night,
And believed in the day as well;
And he vowed, with a sorrowing tearful might,
All she asked, whate'er befel,
If she came to his room, in her garment white,
Once more at the midnight knell.

She came not. He sought her in churchyards old
That lay along the sea;
And in many a church, when the midnight tolled,
And the moon shone wondrously;
And down to the crypts he crept, grown bold;
But he waited in vain: ah me!

And he pined and sighed for love so sore,
That he looked as he were lost;
And he prayed her pardon more and more,
As one who had sinned the most;
Till, fading at length, away he wore,
And he was himself a ghost.

But if he found the lady then,
The lady sadly lost,
Or she had found 'mongst living men
A love that was a host,
I know not, till I drop my pen,
And am myself a ghost.

ABU MIDJAN.

"It is only just
To laud good wine:
If I sit in the dust,
So sits the vine."

Abu Midjan sang, as he sat in chains, For the blood of the grape was the juice of his veins. The prophet had said, "O Faithful, drink not"-- Abu Midjan drank till his heart was hot; Yea, he sang a song in praise of wine, And called it good names, a joy divine. And Saad assailed him with words of blame, And left him in irons, a fettered flame; But he sang of the wine as he sat in chains, For the blood of the grape ran fast in his veins.

"I will not think
That the Prophet said,
_Ye shall not drink
Of the flowing red_.

"But some weakling head,
In its after pain,
Moaning said,
_Drink not again_.

"But I will dare,
With a goodly drought,
To drink and not spare,
Till my thirst be out.

"For as I quaff
The liquor cool,
I do not laugh,
Like a Christian fool;

"But my bosom fills,
And my faith is high;
Through the emerald hills
Goes my lightning eye.

"I see _them_ hearken,
I see them wait;
Their light eyes darken
The diamond gate.

"I hear the float
Of their chant divine;
Each heavenly note
Mingles with mine.

"Can an evil thing
Make beauty more?
Or a sinner bring
To the heavenly door?

"'Tis the sun-rays fine
That sink in the earth,
And are drunk by the vine,
For its daughters' birth.

"And the liquid light,
I drink again;
And it flows in might
Through the shining brain,

"Making it know
The things that are
In the earth below,
Or the farthest star.

"I will not think
That the Prophet said,
_Ye shall not drink
Of the flowing Red_.

"For his promise, lo!
Shows more divine,
When the channels o'erflow
With the singing wine.

"But if he did, 'tis a small annoy
To sit in chains for a heavenly joy."

Away went the song on the light wind borne. His head sank down, and a ripple of scorn, At the irons that fettered his brown limbs' strength. Waved on his lip the dark hair's length. But sudden he lifted his head to the north-- Like a mountain-beacon his eye blazed forth: 'Twas a cloud in the distance that caught his eye, Whence a faint clang shot on the light breeze by; A noise and a smoke on the plain afar-- 'Tis the cloud and the clang of the Moslem war. And the light that flashed from his black eyes, lo! Was a light that paled the red wine's glow; And he shook his fetters in bootless ire, And called on the Prophet, and named his sire. But the lady of Saad heard the clang, And she knew the far sabres his fetters rang. Oh! she had the heart where a man might rest, For she knew the tempest in his breast. She rose. Ere she reached him, he called her name, But he called not twice ere the lady came; And he sprang to his feet, and the irons cursed, And wild from his lips the Tecbir burst: "Let me go," he said, "and, by Allah's fear, At sundown I sit in my fetters here, Or lie 'neath a heaven of starry eyes, Kissed by moon-maidens of Paradise."

The lady unlocked his fetters stout, Brought her husband's horse and his armour out, Clothed the warrior, and bid him go An angel of vengeance upon the foe; Then turned her in, and from the roof, Beheld the battle, far aloof.

Straight as an arrow she saw him go, Abu Midjan, the singer, upon the foe. Like home-sped lightning he pierced the cloud, And the thunder of battle burst more loud; And like lightning along a thunderous steep, She saw the sickle-shaped sabres sweep, Keen as the sunlight they dashed away When it broke against them in flashing spray; Till the battle ebbed o'er the plain afar, Borne on the flow of the holy war. As sank from the edge the sun's last flame, Back to his bonds Abu Midjan came.

"O lady!" he said, "'tis a mighty horse; The Prophet himself might have rode a worse. I felt beneath me his muscles' play, As he tore to the battle, like fiend, away. I forgot him, and swept at the traitor weeds, And they fell before me like broken reeds; Dropt their heads, as a boy doth mow The poppies' heads with his unstrung bow. They fled. The faithful follow at will. I turned. And lo! he was under me still. Give him water, lady, and barley to eat; Then come and help me to fetter my feet."

He went to the terrace, she went to the stall, And tended the horse like a guest in the hall; Then to the singer in haste returned. The fire of the fight in his eyes yet burned; But he said no more, as if in shame Of the words that had burst from his lips in flame. She left him there, as at first she found, Seated in fetters upon the ground.

But the sealed fountain, in pulses strong, O'erflowed his silence, and burst in song.

"Oh! the wine
Of the vine
Is a feeble thing;
In the rattle
Of battle
The true grapes spring.

"When on force
Of the horse,
The arm flung abroad
Is sweeping,
And reaping
The harvest of God.

"When the fear
Of the spear
Makes way for its blow;
And the faithless
Lie breathless
The horse-hoofs below.

"The wave-crest,
Round the breast,
Tosses sabres all red;
But under,
Its thunder
Is dumb to the dead.

"They drop
From the top
To the sear heap below;
And deeper,
Down steeper,
The infidels go.

"But bright
Is the light
On the true-hearted breaking;
Rapturous faces,
Bent for embraces,
Wait on his waking.

"And he hears
In his ears
The voice of the river,
Like a maiden,
Love-laden,
Go wandering ever.

"Oh! the wine
Of the vine
May lead to the gates;
But the rattle
Of battle
Wakes the angel who waits.

"To the lord
Of the sword
Open it must;
The drinker,
The thinker,
Sits in the dust.

"He dreams
Of the gleams
Of their garments of white:
He misses
Their kisses,
The maidens of light.

"They long
For the strong,
Who has burst through alarms,
Up, by the labour
Of stirrup and sabre,
Up to their arms.

"Oh! the wine of the grape is a feeble ghost; But the wine of the fight is the joy of a host."

When Saad came home from the far pursuit, He sat him down, and an hour was mute. But at length he said: "Ah! wife, the fight Had been lost full sure, but an arm of might Sudden rose up on the crest of the war, With its sabre that circled in rainbows afar, Took up the battle, and drove it on-- Enoch sure, or the good St. John. Wherever he leaped, like a lion he, The fight was thickest, or soon to be; Wherever he sprang, with his lion cry, The thick of the battle soon went by. With a headlong fear, the sinners fled; We followed--and passed them--for they were dead. But him who had saved us, we saw no more; He had gone, as he came, by a secret door; And strange to tell, in his holy force, He wore my armour, he rode my horse."

The lady arose, with her noble pride, And she walked with Saad, side by side; As she led him, a moon that would not wane, Where Midjan counted the links of his chain!

"I gave him thy horse, and thy armour to wear; If I did a wrong, I am here to bear."

"Abu Midjan, the singer of love and of wine! The arm of the battle--it also was thine? Rise up, shake the fetters from off thy feet; For the lord of the battle, are fetters meet? Drink as thou wilt--till thou be hoar-- Let Allah judge thee--I judge no more."

Abu Midjan arose and flung aside The clanging fetters, and thus he cried: "If thou give me to God and his decrees, Nor purge my sin by the shame of these; I dare not do as I did before-- In the name of Allah, I drink no more."

AN OLD STORY.

They were parted at last, although
Each was tenderly dear;
As asunder their eyes did go,
When first alone and near.

'Tis an old story this--
A trembling and a sigh,
A gaze in the eyes, a kiss--
Why will it _not_ go by?

A BOOK OF DREAMS.