The Fugitive

Fair vision, undefined and fleeting, 
Whose light foot hardly prints the lawn; 
Now here, now there, my charmed gaze meeting
To be more quickly yet withdrawn. 
A shadow flitting through the wicket, 
A sunny flash upon the air 
Where just behind the lilac thicket
I catch a gleam of golden hair. 
And starting at the passing splendor, 
I lose it like a shooting star. 
One dazzled glance alone I send her, 
Before she vanishes afar. 

Her silver laugh rings musically 
Along the garden’s winding ways;
I hasten down the shady alley, 
Where her white dress flits from my gaze. 
I pour my soul, lest she be near me, 
In some old song, beloved of time; 
But only echo deigns to hear me, 
And chill me with her mocking chime. 
The dream is o’er, I wait in vain; 
But will she never come again? 

From Pan-American Poems: An Anthology (The Gorham Press, 1918), compiled by Agnes Blake Poor. This poem is in the public domain.