And fleeting ever from the passionate touch,

[8]

I shine afar, till men may not divine

Whether it is the stars or the beloved

They follow with wrapt spirit. And I weave

My spells at evening, folding with dim caress,

Aerial arms and twilight dropping hair,

The lonely wanderer by wood or shore,

Till, filled with some deep tenderness, he yields,

Feeling in dreams for the dear mother heart

He knew, ere he forsook the starry way,

And clings there, pillowed far above the smoke

And the dim murmur from the duns of men.

I can enchant the trees and rocks, and fill

The dumb brown lips of earth with mystery,

Make them reveal or hide the god. I breathe

A deeper pity than all love, myself

Mother of all, but without hands to heal:

Too vast and vague, they know me not. But yet

I am the heartbreak over fallen things,

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