In time to come

The time will come full soon! I shall be gone,
And you sit silent in the silent place,
With the sad autumn sunlight on your face.
Remembering the loves that were your own,
Haunted perchance by some familiar tone,
You will be weary then for the dead days,
And mindful of their sweet and bitter ways,
Though passion into memory shall have grown.

Then will I with your other ghosts draw nigh,
And whisper, as I pass, some former word,—
Some old endearment known in days gone by,
Some tenderness that once your pulses stirred:—
Which was it spoke to you, the wind or I?
I think you, musing, scarcely will have heard.