  BENEATH the loveliest dream there coils a fear: Last night came she whose eyes are memories now, Her far-off gaze seemed all-forgetful how Love dimmed them once, so calm they shone, and clear. “Sorrow (I said) hath made me old, my dear; ’Tis I, indeed, but grief doth change the brow; A love like mine a seraph’s neck might bow, Vigils like mine would blanch an angel’s hair.” Ah! then I saw, I saw the sweet lips move! I saw the love-mists thickening in her eyes; I heard wild wordless melodies of love, Like murmur of dreaming brooks in Paradise; And when upon my neck she fell, my dove, I knew her hair, though heavy of amaranth-spice. |
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