H. Thompson Rich

To M. E. S.

I FANCY that perhaps you think of me—

At times, when the curtain of dusk has fallen low

And dim strange ghosts of daylight come and go,

Gold-footed where the shadows leap and flee.

And I fancy that perhaps a memory

Lingers of silent moments we dared not know,

Of words said softly, laughter sudden and slow,

And tokens and signs and symbols we dared not see.

I picture you alone in your dark room,

Curled in a deep chair, quiet and lost in thought,

Pondering curious riddles in the gloom:

Of one who came, and something that he brought;

Of one who worked, and something that he wrought;

Of one who searched, and something, that he sought.