For Something glimpsed upon the topmost hill,
For Something glinting down a country lane,
Where apple-blossoms shimmer white and spill
A ghostly shower close along the rain,—
For Something guessed beyond the hedge or tree,
Hinted and hid behind the evening star,
I am made captive and am never free
Of Something that is neither near nor far.

A waking through the windy shapes of grass,
A trembling as of light along a bough,—
These are for footprints and a way to pass,
To follow after and to make a vow,—
To seek past glamours that are hourly spent,
And find but fainting lights down ways she went.