  'WE are not often alone, we two,' Mused a secret voice in my ear, As the dying hues of afternoon Lapsed into evening drear. A withered leaf, wafted on in the street, Like a wayless spectre, sighed; Aslant on the roof-tops a sickly moon Did mutely abide. Yet waste though the shallowing day might seem, And fainter than hope its rose, Strangely that speech in my thoughts welled on; As water in-flows: Like remembered words once heard in a room Wherein death kept far-away tryst; 'Not often alone, we two; but thou, How sorely missed!'
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