  After wet twilights, when the rain is done, I think they walk these ways that knew their feet, And tread these sunken pavements, one by one, Keen for old Summers that were wild and sweet; Where rainy lilacs blow against the dark, And grasses bend beneath the weight they Their ghostly heart-break on the tender air. Be still! We cannot know what trysts they keep, What eager hands reach vainly for a door, Remembered since they folded them in sleep,— Frail hands that lift like lilacs, evermore, And lean along the darkness, pale and still, To touch a window or a crumbling sill. |
|
