Poems (Probyn)/Villanelle (In every sound, I think I hear her feet)
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For works with similar titles, see Villanelle.
VILLANELLE.
"Solo passar
Non puo il 'dolor."
Non puo il 'dolor."
In every sound, I think I hear her feet—
And still I wend my altered way alone,
And still I say, "To-morrow we shall meet."
And still I wend my altered way alone,
And still I say, "To-morrow we shall meet."
I watch the shadows in the crowdèd street—
Each passing face I follow one by one—
In every sound I think I hear her feet.
Each passing face I follow one by one—
In every sound I think I hear her feet.
And months go by—bleak March and May-day heat—
Harvest is over—winter well-nigh done—
And still I say, "To-morrow we shall meet."
Harvest is over—winter well-nigh done—
And still I say, "To-morrow we shall meet."
Among the city squares, when flowers are sweet,
With every breath a sigh of hers seems blown—
In every sound I think I hear her feet.
With every breath a sigh of hers seems blown—
In every sound I think I hear her feet.
Belfry and clock the unending hours repeat,
From twelve to twelve—and still she comes in none—
And still I say, "To-morrow we shall meet."
From twelve to twelve—and still she comes in none—
And still I say, "To-morrow we shall meet."
Oh, long-delayed to-morrow!—hearts that beat
Measure the length of every minute gone—
In every sound I think I hear her feet.
Measure the length of every minute gone—
In every sound I think I hear her feet.
Ever the suns rise, tardily or fleet,
And light the letters on a churchyard stone,—
And still I say, "To-morrow we shall meet."
And light the letters on a churchyard stone,—
And still I say, "To-morrow we shall meet."
And still from out her unknown, far retreat
She haunts me with her tender undertone—
In every sound I think I hear her feet—
And still I say, "To-morrow—we shall meet."
She haunts me with her tender undertone—
In every sound I think I hear her feet—
And still I say, "To-morrow—we shall meet."