ONCE in my garret, — you being far away,
Tramping the hills and breathing upland air,
Or so I fancied, — brooding in my chair,
I watched the London sunshine feeble and gray
Dapple my desk, too tired to labor more,
When, looking up, I saw you standing there
Although I ’d caught no footstep on the stair,
Like sudden April at my open door.
Though now beyond earth’s farthest hills you fare,
Song-crowned, immortal, sometimes it seems to me
That, if I listen very quietly,
Perhaps I’ll hear a light foot on the stair
And see you, standing with your angel air,
Fresh from the uplands of eternity.