Page:New poems and variant readings, Stevenson, 1918.djvu/25

Rh For memories of love are more

Than the white moon there above

And dearer than quiet moonshine

Are the thoughts of her I love.

III.

Last night I lingered long without

My last of loves to see.

Alas! the moon-white window-panes

Stared blindly back on me.

To-day I hold her very hand,

Her very waist embrace—

Like clouds across a pool, I read

Her thoughts upon her face.

And yet, as now, through her clear eyes

I seek the inner shrine—

I stoop to read her virgin heart

In doubt if it be mine—

O looking long and fondly thus,

What vision should I see?

No vision, but my own white face

That grins and mimics me.