  To Her, when life was little worth, When hope, a tide run low, Between dim shores of emptiness Almost forgot to flow,— Faint with the city’s fume and stress I came at night to Her. Her cool white fingers on my face— How wonderful they were! More dear they were to fevered lids Than lilies cooled in dew. They touched my lips with tenderness, Till life was born anew. The city’s clamour died in calm; And once again I heard The moon-white woodland stillnesses Enchanted by a bird; The wash of far, remembered waves; The sigh of lapsing streams; And one old garden’s lilac leaves Conferring in their dreams. A breath from childhood daisy fields Came back to me again, Here in the city’s weary miles |
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