Page:Poems, now first collected, Stedman, 1897.djvu/53

A VIGIL And presses long

These lips so mute of song,

And now, with kisses cool, my half-shut eyes.

This night? O what is here!

What viewless aura clings

So fitfully, so near,

On this returning eventide

When Memory will not be denied

Unfettered wings?

My arms reach out,—in vain,—

They fold the air:

And yet—that wandering breath again!

Too vague to make her phantom plain,

Too tender for despair.

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