THE days fade; and the perfect silence lies
So deep that almost one might wake to know
The rooms speak and the dark halls answer low.
There is no sound of her, no keen surprise
Of her returning steps the whole day long;
Yet I have thought at times, when daylight dies
And memories of her here more thickly throng,
The trembling air has been an instant stirred
With faint scents and soft clangs of golden stones;
Or when the clocks’ chimes mingle their dim tones
And thrill with sudden music the pained hours,
It almost seems as if one subtly heard,
In darkened woods, among the pale, still flowers,
The flutes and bells of her low laugh and song.