So well I knew your habits and your ways,
That like a picture painted on the skies,
At the sweet closing of the summer days,
You stand before my eyes.
I see you on the old verandah there,
While slow the shadows of the twilight fall,
I see the very carving on the chair
You tilt against the wall.
The West grows dim. The faithful evening star
Comes out and sheds its tender patient beam.
I almost catch the scent of your cigar,
As you sit there and dream.
But dream of what? I know your outward life—
Your ways, your habits; know they have not changed.
But has one thought of me survived the strife
Since we two were estranged?
I know not of the workings of your heart;
And yet I sometimes make myself believe
That I perchance do hold some little part
Of reveries at eve.
I think you could not wholly put away
The memories of a past that held so much.
As birds fly homeward at the close of day,
A word, a kiss, a touch,
Must sometimes come and nestle in your breast
And murmur to you of the long ago.
Oh do they stir you with a vague unrest?
What would I give to know!