336
A DARK MONTH.
Yet it haply may hap
That he,
When the mirth in his veins is as sap
In a tree,
Will remember me too
Some day
Ere the transit be thoroughly through
Of this May—
Or perchance, if such grace
May be,
Some night when I dream of his face,
Dream of me.
Or if this be too high
A hope
For me to prefigure in my
Horoscope,
He may dream of the place
Where we
Basked once in the light of his face,
Who now see
Nought brighter, not one
Thing bright,
Than the stars and the moon and the sun,
Day nor night
