Night is not here remembered for her grief, Nor darkness, that had made nations afraid, She is half mocked at and half left alone, A pitiful thing, a little wandering leaf Among the floating lights and the cascade Of weary color and of outworn tone. I turn and leave this solemn masquerade. This is a dream and you too real to meet, I must awake or somehow I will miss you, If I could only see the moon I’d know That you would come, for once I heard your feet, Running to me through gray leaves lying dead When it was full and you too new to kiss you, White feet too frail to bring you to me now.