The Lost Name

THE voice of my true love is low And exquisitely kind, Warm as a flower, cold as snow— I think it is the Wind.

My true love's face is white as mist That moons have lingered on, Yet rosy as a cloud, sun-kissed— I think it is the Dawn.

The breath of my true love is sweet As gardens at day's close When dew and dark together meet— I think it is a Rose.

My true love's heart is wild and shy And folded from my sight, A world, a star, a whispering sigh— I think it is the Night.

My true love's name is lost to me, The prey of dusty years, But in the falling Rain I see And know her by her tears!