Years ago, on a deep, dense, cold Thursday night—
A girl, Whose pulse at neck's a moth's wing flight,
Appeared in dream. Her lashes lowered slight
When our eyes met, and lips curved in sweet delight.

Her pale fingers were clutching tight
A flickering candle, shining warm and bright.
In that light, I met her enchanting gaze, that might
Provide some sort of solace in life’s wavering plight.

In my mind or before the sight—
T'was my last chase of peace—a vanishing trail of light.