VII

Shall I not know? I, that could always catch

The sunrise in one beam along the wall,

The nests of June in April's mating call,

And ruinous autumn in the wind's first snatch

At summer's green impenetrable thatch —

That always knew far off the secret fall

Of a god's feet across the city's brawl,

The touch of silent fingers on my latch?

Not thou, vain Moment! Something more than thou

Shall write the score of what mine eyes have wept,

The touch of kisses that have missed my brow,

The murmur of wings that brushed me while I slept,

And some mute angel in the breast even now

Measures my loss by all that I have kept.