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The night, whose silences detach each sound, The leaves, as whispering heralds in a wood, Stir hopes of you about my solitude. Was that a carriage wheel upon the ground? —The grassy ground that brings the road uphill Would muffle horses' hoofs—I listen still— A nervous motion at my heart: the bound Of too responsive veins—a hush profound.

I hear a night bird call its mate?&hellip; a hound Out on the farm bark at some peasant maid Too tired with harvesting to feel afraid. &hellip; Loosed, and now tied, scenting the sunny air, All day she combed and tossed the fields'dim hair. As some mute servant tending a fair queen She Works in beauty neither felt nor seen, While I have nature, all the whole earth over, For Company. Yet anxious as a lover Prisoned in sentiment, I watch and start. Is it then just for you I live apart? The moon, as milk caught in a pail, now flows Over its rim, whit'ning the dark that glows— I saw your absence less by day, and less This summer's brilliant, living emptiness.