RAIN has ceased and the dusk is chill,
But a high, sweet wind blows from the hill
Where sun has set, but the red glows still.
Noiseless tread and voice at my side,
Sure and strange as the creeping tide,
‘Why do you walk when paupers ride?’
His eyes are brighter than stars at play:
Pity me that I turn away
Who might be striding the wind to-day.
Dream, poor heart, what you cannot tell,
For he is stronger than Gabriel,
His lips are the maddest fire of Hell.
If ever again he calls me so,
His hair a torch in the afterglow,
Sure as death, I shall laugh and go!