F .
W .
Stokoe .
My longing has no shape
or name,
My
joy
is
fleeting
as
the
dew :
Who
heard
a
footstep
as
it
came ?
Or, when
it
vanished , knew
Which
way he might pursue ?
At
ebbing
noon -tide
on
the hill
You
come- ah, surely
you are there :
So near
you
are , so near - and
still
I
seek
you
everywhere,
Nor
find
you
anywhere.
III.
Pipe me a
silver
song,
A
fleeting
strain ,
Like
shining
wind
along
A
leafy
plain
Swift
sunlight caught among
Shadows
and
rain.
Calling
loud
and
calling
still,
Over mossy
bank
and rill ,
Piping
soft
and
piping shrill .
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