O heart, be sad, be still!
She that we love is far,
Veiling her face with folded plain and hill
Below the vesper star.

Breathe only one wild sigh
On winds of sunset gone—
Flown like the exile, brief, October cry
Of oread and faun.

Mute evening wanes in mist. . . .
Our feet have lost the way
Leading to that inviolable tryst
In dells of yesterday.

O night! upon thy stream
Obliviously to float
And haply find in westward-flowing dream
Her place and face remote.