Twilight

When to the inward darkness of my mind

I bid your face come, not one hue replies

Of that curved cheek, no, nor the faint-tinged rose

Of lips, nor smile between the mouth and eyes:

Only the eyes themselves, past telling, seem

To break in beauty in the twilight there,

And out of solitude your very ghost

Steals through the scarce-seen shadow of your hair.