Sometimes I think thy gentle face doth bloom
Within the secret garden of my thought,
As though some moonlit lily, sweet with dew,
Had by an angel's quiet tending wrought.

I know not how such tender marvels come;
No mortal tongue their mystery can tell.
Yet oft my heart, before my reason wakes,
Hath heard the music where thy spirit fell.

Though many a mile lies sleeping 'twixt our hands,
Some unseen fragrance wanders from thy breast,
And like the evening's softly-breathing rose,
It steals upon my soul and grants it rest.

When Night, kind mother of all dreaming things,
Draws her dark mantle o'er the weary skies,
I charge my soul to cast its earthly weight
And seek thee where the silent starlight lies.

On viewless winds, through fields the moon makes pale,
It flies beyond the world's encumbering shore,
To stand beside thee for a little while,
Till rosy Dawn shall call us home once more.

And if, perchance, thy slumber gently stirs,
And some dear happiness no cause can claim
Should warm thy heart before the breaking day,
I pray it was my spirit spoke thy name.