Long Dead

So much I had of you, yet not enough; Some vague of loveliness you kept from me, Some trick of April laughter, some grey stuff Of grief, woven of lost sun and a lost sea.

I crooked my hand to reach you — you were gone! And I was left as one without a wall — Behind which white quince shows its veils of lawn — A wayfarer, your lover not at all.

But now, I know you even as I am known; Your foot makes stir of music in the air; I pluck a wayside flower; upon mine own Your fingers clasp; its small blue pomp we share;

And when life cumbers, and the hard tears start, It is enough to run, straight to your heart!