The Lost Name

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THE voice of my true love is low
  And exquisitely kind,
Warm as a flower, cold as snow--
  I think it is the Wind.

My true love's face is white as mist
  That moons have lingered on,
Yet rosy as a cloud, sun-kissed--
  I think it is the Dawn.

The breath of my true love is sweet
  As gardens at day's close
When dew and dark together meet--
  I think it is a Rose.

My true love's heart is wild and shy
  And folded from my sight,
A world, a star, a whispering sigh--
  I think it is the Night.

My true love's name is lost to me,
  The prey of dusty years,
But in the falling Rain I see
  And know her by her tears!

© Isabel Ecclestone Mackay