Poems (Probyn)/Villanelle (In every sound, I think I hear her feet)

by May Probyn

For works with similar titles, see Villanelle.

VILLANELLE.

"Solo passarNon 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."

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.

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."

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.

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."

Oh, long-delayed to-morrow!—hearts that beat 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 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."