When summer comes, then you are near to me,
I feel your phantom presence on my heart,
In every wind the dead year speaks again,
And every scene springs up to take its part.
'Twas such a day, as sweet a wind arose,
To kiss with perfumed lips your brown blown hair;
With brow perplexed and that odd smile you had,
I wondered what you thought of, standing there.
'Twas here I stooped to pluck a drooping flower,
You prayed so foolishly that you might keep;
And here you turned a moment's space so cold,
I only laughed for fear that I should weep.
O phantom love! that haunts me restlessly,
That from my passionate hands will ever fly,
Fate owes me this, I will pursue and hold,
Or, finding you but shadow, let me die.