As in the Dusty Lane to Fern Or Flower
As in the dusty lane to fern or flower,
Whose freshness in hot noon is dried and dead,
Sweet comes the dark with a full—falling shower,
And again breathes the new—washed, happy head:
So when the thronged world round my spirit hums,
And soils my purer sense, and dims my eyes,
So grateful to my heart the evening comes,
Unburdening its still rain of memories.
Then in the deep and solitary night
I feel the freshness of your absent grace,
Sweetening the air, and know again the light
Of your loved presence, musing on your face,
Until I see its image, clear and whole,
Shining above me, and sleep takes my soul.
