Poetry
Not Here
WHAT mockery is this ? How many times I start to see you looking down on me'. Perhaps it is some trick of light that mimes Your face so truthfully ?
Perhaps distorted fancy fashions you Darkly, gigantically, behind that chair ; So that you stand, just as you used to do, With that calm resolute air—
Setting the old emotions which have lain Dormant, through long repression, suddenly free ; Oh ! for the cool firm touch of your hands again Quietly possessing me !
I reach towards you—and your °Alines grow To empty formless shadows, and your face Disintegrates, and all your features go Into the depths of space.
I am alone now ; and the still, still room Fills me with sudden undetermined fes.c.
- How strange) I could haveswora that through the gloom,— Yet there is no one here.
A. S. LicoNAuu,',
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