The night, whose silences detach each sound,
The leaves, as whispering heralds in a wood,
Stir hopes of you about my solitude.
Was that a carriage wheel upon the ground?
--The grassy ground that brings the road uphill
Would muffle horses hoofs--I listen still--
A nervous motion at my heart: the bound
Of too responsive veins--a hush profound.
I hear a night bird call its mate?... a hound
Out on the farm bark at some peasant maid
Too tired with harvesting to feel afraid.
... Loosed, and now tied, scenting the sunny air,
All day she combed and tossed the fields' dim hair,
As some mute servant tending a fair queen
She works in beauty neither felt nor seen,
While I have nature, all the whole earth over,
For company. Yet anxious as a lover
Prisoned in sentiment, I watch and start.
Is it then just for you I live apart?
The moon, as milk caught in a pail, now flows
Over its rim, whit'ning the dark that glows--
I saw your absence less by day, and less
This summers brilliant, living emptiness.