Am I waking, am I sleeping? As the first faint dawn comes creeping Thro’ the pane, I am aware Of an unseen presence hovering, Round, above, in the dusky air: A downy bird, with an odorous wing, That fans my forehead, and sheds perfume, As sweet as love, as soft as death, Drowsy-slow through the summer-gloom. My heart in some dream-rapture saith, _It is she_. Half in a swoon, I spread my arms in slow delight.-- O prolong, prolong the night, For the nights are short in June! _At Dawn._ [Illustration: text decoration] In the night I dreamed of you; All the place was filled With your presence; in my heart The strife was stilled. All night I have dreamed of you; Now the morn is grey.-- How shall I arise and face The empty day? _Last Words._ _Dead! all’s done with!_ R. BROWNING. These blossoms that I bring, This song that here I sing, These tears that now I shed, I give unto the dead. There is no more to be done, Nothing beneath the sun, All the long ages through, Nothing--by me for you. The tale is told to the end; This, ev’n, I may not know-- If we were friend and friend, If we were foe and foe. _All’s done with_ utterly, _All’s done with_. Death to me Was ever Death indeed; To me no kindly creed Consolatory was given. You were of earth, not Heaven.... This dreary day, things seem Vain shadows in a dream, Or some strange, pictured show; And mine own tears that flow, My hidden tears that fall, The vainest of them all. _June._ [Illustration: text decoration] Last June I saw your face three times; Three times I touched your hand; Now, as before, May month is o’er, And June is in the land. O many Junes shall come and go, Flow’r-footed o’er the mead; O many Junes for me, to whom Is length of days decreed. There shall be sunlight, scent of rose, Warm mist of summer rain; Only this change--I shall not look Upon your face again. _A Reminiscence._ [Illustration: text decoration] It is so long gone by, and yet How clearly now I see it all! The glimmer of your cigarette, The little chamber, narrow and tall. Perseus; your picture in its frame; (How near they seem and yet how far!) The blaze of kindled logs; the flame Of tulips in a mighty jar. Florence and spring-time: surely each Glad things unto the spirit saith. Why did you lead me in your speech To these dark mysteries of death? _The Sequel to “A Reminiscence.”_ [Illustration: text decoration] Not in the street and not in the square, The street and square where you went and came; With shuttered casement your house stands bare, Men hush their voice when they speak your name.