From the candles and dumb shadows,
And the house where love had died,
I stole to the vast moonlight
the whispering life outside.
But I found no lips of comfort,
No home in the moon's light
(I, little and lone
In the unfriendly night),
And no meaning in the voices. . . .
Far over the lands and through
dark, beyond the ocean,
I willed to think of you!
For I knew, had you been with me
I'd have known the
words of night,
Found peace of heart, gone gladly
In comfort of that light.
Oh! the wind with soft beguiling
Would have stolen my thought away;
And the night, subtly smiling,
by the silver way;
And the moon came down and danced to me,
And her robe was white and flying;
trees bent their heads to me
And dead voices wept around me;
And dead soft fingers
And the little gods whispered. . . .
Desperately I willed;
Till all grew soft and far
And silent . . .
I found you white and
Far out through the tides of darkness.
And I there in that great light
Was alone no
more, nor fearful;
For there, in the homely night,
Was no thought else that mattered,
And nothing else was
But the white fire of moonlight,
And a white dream of you.