So strange, these thoughts of you
On an evening such as this.
I stand and talk with Lysander
Who knows nothing of big city living
And houses that stretch four stories high
Into the crisp metropolitan air.
I remember a word
You spoke to me once: demure;
How your face sparkled like victory
as its meaning evaded me.
And you laughed a little, too,
Having bested me at last.
Too long it has been
Since I have dreamed of the city.
Too long are these days
That pass without your words.
Too faint is this hope:
To reconcile at last.
So strange these thoughts of you,
As crystal as the stars that rise.