Матильда Блайнд (Mathilde Blind)

Haunted

Why will you haunt me unawares,
And walk into my sleep,
Pacing its shadowy thoroughfares,
Where long-dried perfume scents the airs,

While ghosts of sorrow creep,
Where on Hope's ruined altar-stairs,
With ineffectual beams,
The Moon of Memory coldly glares

Upon the land of dreams?
My yearning eyes were fain to look
Upon your hidden face;
Their love, alas! you could not brook,

But in your own you mutely took
My hand, and for a space
You wrung it till I throbbed and shook,
And woke with wildest moan

And wet face channelled like a brook
With your tears or my own.

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