There is grave beauty here
in this orchard-valley
where no storms sully
the rich purple gloom where the lilies are.
And there is quietness here
now, as of old,
where great trees fold
their dark limbs round the coolness of the air.
The pearls of the sky still gleam
through the branches of the trees,
and the little wandering breeze
that ruffles the feathers of the grass is still the same.
Yet there is loneliness
more stark than I have known
as I stray alone
through the dim grass…
O blue-grey dusk, where have you hidden my lover?
—she who would steal softly to this place
unbidden, in other days,
and lie in my arms in the haven of the clover.
Now there is left to me nothing
but frail lilies of evening, and her face
is only a shadow in the gloom of this place,
and a memory of her bosom pressed against mine, soft-breathing.