VII.

Why will you haunt me unawares, And walk into my sleep, Pacing its shadowy thoroughfares, Where long-dried perfume scents the airs, While ghosts of sorrow creep, Where on Hope's ruined altar-stairs, With ineffectual beams, The Moon of Memory coldly glares Upon the land of dreams?

My yearning eyes were fain to look Upon your hidden face; Their love, alas! you could not brook, But in your own you mutely took My hand, and for a space You wrung it till I throbbed and shook, And woke with wildest moan And wet face channelled like a brook With your tears or my own.