In after years a twilight ghost shall fill
With shadowy presence all thy waiting room —
From lips of air thou canst not kiss the bloom,
Yet at old kisses will thy pulses thrill,
And the old longing that thou couldst not kill,
Feeling her presence in the gathering gloom,
Will mock thee with the hopelessness of doom,
While she stands there and smiles, serene and still.
Thou canst not vex her then with passion's pain;
Call, and the silence will thy call repeat,
But she will smile there with cold lips and sweet,
Forgetful of old tortures, and the chain
That once she wore — the tears she wept in vain
At passing from her threshold of thy feet.