Realization

I smiled with skeptic mocking where they told me you were dead, You of the airy laughter and lightly twinkling feet; "They tell a dream that haunted a chill gray dawn," I said, "Death could not touch or claim a thing so vivid and so sweet!" I looked upon you coffined amid your virgin flowers, But even that white silence could bring me no belief: "She lies in maiden sleep," I said. "and in the youngling hours Her sealed dark eyes will open to scorn our foolish grief." But when I went at moonrise to our ancient trysting place. . . . . And, oh, the wind was keening in the fir-boughs overhead! . . . . And you came never to me with your little gypsy face, Your lips and hands of welcome, I knew that you were dead!