Page:The poems of Richard Watson Gilder, Gilder, 1908.djvu/51

Rh Into that valley, where the hills abide

But whence those morning clouds on noiseless wheels

Shall lingering lift and, as the moonlight steals

From out the heavens, so into the heavens shall glide.

I know thou art not this gray rock that looms

Above the water, fringed with scarlet vine;

Nor flame of burning meadow; nor the sedge

That sways and trembles at the river's edge.

But through all these, dear heart! to me there comes

Some melancholy, absent look of thine.

XXII—THE LOVER'S LORD AND MASTER

XXIII—SONG