Long Dead

So much I had of you, yet not enough;
Some vague of loveliness you kept from me,
Some trick of April laughter, some grey stuff
Of grief, woven of lost sun and a lost sea.
I crooked my hand to reach you—you were gone!
And I was left as one without a wall—
Behind which white quince shows its veils of lawn—
A wayfarer, your lover not at all.
But now, I know you even as I am known;
Your foot makes stir of music in the air;
I pluck a wayside flower; upon mine own
Your fingers clasp; its small blue pomp we share;
And when life cumbers, and the hard tears start,
It is enough to run, straight to your heart!