Death hath not slain thee all: when twilight spends
Her liquid amber in the latest ebb
Withdrawing, and the day in silence ends,
Expectant of the stars, when through the web
Of woven boughs fall glimmering silver spears,
Our dreaming heart will stir, as if a light
Caress had touched it, and fill up with tears,
Remembering: nor only with the night
Fall that sweet sadness, light in a dark place,
Memory. Shrouded in her shrine of flesh,
The soul sits brooding, veiled of form and face
By Time, and in our mortal nature's mesh
Trammelled, yet sometimes hears the sound of wings
And sees, far off, divine, immortal things.