Classic Poem

Deep mists of longing blur the land
as in your late October eve:
almost I think your hand might leave
its old caress upon my hand —
for sure this floating world of dream
hath touch'd that far reality
of memory's heaven; nor would I deem
the chance a strange one, if to thee
my feet should stray ere fall the night,
or, reaching to that lucent shore,
these eyes should wake on tenderer light
to greet the spring and thee once more.