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To be more quickly yet withdrawn.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?