Page:Poems, now first collected, Stedman, 1897.djvu/52

 A VIGIL

the lane's dim hollow,—

Past is the twilight hour,

But stealthy shadows follow

And Night withholds her power,

For somewhere in the eastern sky

The shrouded moon is high.

Dews from the wild rose drip unheard,—

Their unforgotten scent

With that of woods and grasses blent;

No muffled flight of bird,

No whispering voice, my footfall stops;

No breeze amid the poplar-tops

The smallest leaf has stirred.

Yet round me, here and there,

A little fluttering wind

Plays now,—these senses have divined

A breath across my hair,—

A touch,—that on my forehead lies, 32