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

Her pale slender fingers, I saw, 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 pursuit of peace—a vanishing trail of light.