O heart, be sad, be still!
She that we love is far,
Veiling her face with folded plain and hill
Below the vesper star.
Breathe only one wild sigh
On winds of sunset gone-
Flown like the exile, brief, October cry
Of oread and faun.
Mute evening wanes in mist. . . .
Our feet have lost the way
Leading to that inviolable tryst
In dells of yesterday.
O night! upon thy stream
Obliviously to float
And haply find in westward-flowing dream
Her place and face remote.