  Death hath not slain thee all: when twilight spends Her liquid amber in the latest ebb Withdrawing, and the day in silence ends, Expectant of the stars, when through the web Of woven boughs fall glimmering silver spears, Our dreaming heart will stir, as if a light Caress had touched it, and fill up with tears, Remembering: nor only with the night Fall that sweet sadness, light in a dark place, Memory. Shrouded in her shrine of flesh, The soul sits brooding, veiled of form and face By Time, and in our mortal nature's mesh Trammelled, yet sometimes hears the sound of wings And sees, far off, divine, immortal things. |
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