Some of that August day’s long-dead delight 
Came back to me, as on a winter hill 
I saw red sunset fall away and spill 
Its scattered jewels on the lap of night.

We two had always been so calm, so still, 
That silence was not lonely, and despite 
The shadow deepening over snowy white, 
A warmth, as of your presence, smote the chill.

Whatever men may call the real, the true, 
This much I know indeed, that an immense 
And actual radiance such as only you 
Have ever given to my mortal sense 
Gleamed on the hillside and then vanished hence; 
And all that winter night the south wind blew.