The Fugitive

Fair vision, undefined and fleeting,
Whose light foot hardly prints the lawn;
Now here, now there, my charmed gaze meeting
To be more quickly yet withdrawn.
A shadow flitting through the wicket,
A sunny flash upon the air
Where just behind the lilac thicket
I catch a gleam of golden hair.
And starting at the passing splendor,
I lose it like a shooting star.
One dazzled glance alone I send her,
Before she vanishes afar.

Her silver laugh rings musically
Along the garden’s winding ways;
I hasten down the shady alley,
Where her white dress flits from my gaze.
I pour my soul, lest she be near me,
In some old song, beloved of time;
But only echo deigns to hear me,
And chill me with her mocking chime.
The dream is o’er, I wait in vain;
But will she never come again?

Pedro J. Naón