My Fleeting Visitor

She is gone; gone I know not where,

But often when the skies are fair

I feel her presence as of yore,

And thus she holds me as before.

If e’er I seek sweet solitude,

My dreamy musings to pursue,

And feel again the joy and pain

As mortals here are wont to do,

I hear the rustle of her gown;

And, looking up her eyes of brown

Meet mine; then all the hatred flies

From out my heart, and paradise

Steals in. I reach to sit her down

When lo, she fades before my eyes.

May 22, ‘91

Pub. in

Boston Courier