FUGITIVE

Behind these falling curtains of the rain,

Beauty goes by, a phantom on the hill,

A timid fugitive beyond the lane,

In rainy silver,— and so shy and still

That only peering eyes of some hid bird,

Or furry ears that listened by a stone,

Could guess at Something neither seen nor heard,

Finding escape, and faring by, alone.

For eyes like ours, too faint a thing and fleet,

Too lightly running for such ears to hear

The stealthy going of those weightless feet;

No thrilling sight or sound of her comes near,

Only the shining grasses where they lie,

Give hint of silver slippers hasting by.