SHE sat where sunset shadows fell,
And sunset rays, a miracle
Of palest blue and rose and amber,
Touched her and folded in their spell.
Her golden head against the sky
Was traced and outlined tenderly,
And, lily-soft in the soft late sunshine,
Her fair face blossomed to my eye.
She sang of love with tuneful breath,
Of sorrow, sweet as aught love saith;
Of noble pain, immortal longing,
And hope which stronger is than death.
And every word and every tone
Seemed born of something all my own.
’Twas I who sang, ’twas I who suffered;
Mine was the joyance, mine the moan.
Each lovely, vibrant, rapturous strain
Fulfilled my passion and my pain.
I was the instrument she played on;
I was her prelude and refrain.
And as dim echoes float and play
Through forests at the close of day,
Farther and farther, breathed mysterious
From glades and copses far away,
So echoed through my heart her song,
Deeper and deeper borne along,
Waking to life half-unsuspected
Grievings and hopes and yearnings strong.
Ah! life and heart may weary be
And youth may fail, and love may flee;
But when I hear her, see her singing,
The world grows beautiful to me.