Page:The Yellow Book - 04.djvu/62

52 Ever the thought of her abides with me Unceasing as the murmur of the sea; When the round moon is low and night-birds flit, When sink the stubble-fires with smouldering flame, Over and o'er the sea-wind sighs her name,
 * And the leaves whisper it.

"Poor Vespertilia," sing the grasses sere, "Poor Vespertilia," moans the surf-beat shore; Almost I feel her very presence near—
 * Yet she comes nevermore.