which I rescue gladly from the caprice of the gods who rule over a mystic's manuscript. They are addressed to a girl, whom he knew, I understand, in another life, and tell how he died out of a dream of love centuries before his present body was born.
As from our dreams we died away
Far off I felt the outer things,
Your wind-blown tresses round me play,
Your bosom's gentle murmurings.
And far away our faces met
As on the verge of the vast spheres;
And in the night our cheeks were wet,
I could not say with dew or tears.
As one within the Mother's heart,
In that hushed dream upon the hight,
We lived, and then rose up to part,
Because her ways are infinite.
One or two other poems have a like perfection of feeling, but deal with more impalpable matters. There are fine passages in all, but these will often be imbedded
