When darkness hides me, dearest,
And when, this face, now daily in thy sight,
Becomes a dream to haunt the silent night,
And vanish when the busy noon is clearest;
Then, dear, the love I gave thee,
Which ever for thy coming, lay in wait,
Exacting often and importunate,
Shall be a memory to bless and save thee.
Some little foolish saying
Will wander back unto thee from the past,
Like a stray rose-branch o'er thy pathway cast,
With flowers and thorns thy careless steps waylaying.
June roses in December! —
Dream roses, yet their phantom thorns give pain.
Somewhere, somehow, when we two meet again,
How much must we forget, how much remember!