Deep mists of longing blur the land

as in your late October eve:

almost I think your hand might leave

its old caress upon my hand —

for sure this floating world of dream

hath touch’d that far reality

of memory’s heaven; nor would I deem

the chance a strange one, if to thee

my feet should stray ere fall the night,

or, reaching to that lucent shore,

these eyes should wake on tenderer light

to greet the spring and thee once more.