Deep mists of longing blur the landas in your late October eve:almost I think your hand might leaveits old caress upon my hand--
for sure this floating world of dreamhath touch'd that far realityof memory's heaven; nor would I deemthe chance a strange one, if to thee
my feet should stray ere fall the night,or, reaching to that lucent shore,these eyes should wake on tenderer lightto greet the spring and thee once more.
