Her Shadow

Still as I move thou movest,
Sister of mine, silent and left of the light.
Why dost thou follow my way
All through the hours of the day?
Where dost thou wait all the night
For the coming of light?

Is it then that thou lovest
Me, that forever must stand between thee and the sun?
For whose sake thy life is made
The dim, cold life of a shade —
A life that, until it be done,
Is unkissed of the sun.

Hearken, I whisper a word —
Thy lips too part, yet breathless are they, without fire;
My hands stretch forth, and they clasp
Roses and lilies —
Gray ghosts of bloom, and desire
Ashes for fire!

Look how my veil is stirred
By the beating beneath it — thine too moves, ah, poor shade!
What of warm life canst thou know?
When I die where wilt thou go —
Wilt thou be lonely, afraid?
I, too, a shade!