MYSTIC

For Something glimpsed upon the topmost hill,

For Something glinting down a country lane,

Where apple-blossoms shimmer white and spill

A ghostly shower close along the rain,—

For Something guessed beyond the hedge or tree,

Hinted and hid behind the evening star,

I am made captive and am never free

Of Something that is neither near nor far.

A waking through the windy shapes of grass,

A trembling as of light along a bough,—

These are for footprints and a way to pass,

To follow after and to make a vow,—

To seek past glamours that are hourly spent,

And find but fainting lights down ways she went.