ELUDE me still, keep ever just before,
A cloudy thing, a shape with wingèd feet.
I shall pursue, but be you strict and fleet,
Unreachable as gusts that pass the door.
Better than doubting eye that eye of yore
Which set tall robbers stalking through the night;
Or of the wind, lane’s hollow, briers white,
Made for the Apriltide one ghost the more.
For safe am I that have you still in sight;
See you down each new road, upon you come
In crocus days ; under the stripped tree find;
In creed and song, in harvest as in blight;
My chiefest joy till I grow cold and dumb;
Till my years fail, and you are left behind !
Lizette Woodworth Reese.