Villanelle

IN every sound, I think I hear her feet —
And still I wend my altered way alone,
And still I say, " To-morrow we shall meet."

I watch the shadows in the crowded street —
Each passing face I follow one by one —
In every sound I think I hear her feet.

And months go by — bleak March and May-day heat-
Harvest is over — winter well-nigh done —
And still I say, " To-morrow we shall meet."

Among the city squares, when flowers are sweet,
With every breath a sigh of hers seems blown —
In every sound I think I hear her feet.

Belfry and clock the unending hours repeat,
From twelve to twelve — and still she comes in none —
And still I say, " To-morrow we shall meet."

Oh, long-delayed to-morrow I — hearts that beat
Measure the length of every minute gone —
In every sound I think I hear her feet.

Ever the suns rise, tardily or fleet,
And light the letters on a churchyard stone, —
And still I say, " To-morrow we shall meet."

And still from out her unknown, far retreat
She haunts me with her tender undertone —
In every sound I think I hear her feet —
And still I say, " To-morrow — we shall meet."