The Mist Maiden

Is it an idle fantasy,
That in the twilight's violet gloom,
When waves are singing out at sea,
And shadows fill the room,—

The mist assumes before my gaze,
A human form of exquisite grace,
And by the melancholy haze,
Is veiled a peerless face?—

A maiden loved when life was new,
Her soul was trust, her eyes a prayer;
She faded quite. Can it be true
I see her in the air?

Her eyes are crystals, dropping tears,
Her hair reflects the silver moon;
Will ecstasy or sudden fears
Conquer my heart more soon?

She stands in statuesque repose,
A chiseled vision, calm and fair;
She smiles: my full heart overflows,
The maid dissolves in air.