The Young Man in April

In the queer light, in twilight, I meet a thousand man, but I never meet my dear. Yet each of them has something. A turn of neck or knee, a line of shoulder. That brings my dear to me. One has a way of swaying, i'd swear to anywhere, one has a laugh and one a hat, and one a trick of hair. Oh, glints and hints an gestures when shall I find complete. The dear that's walking somewhere, the dear I've yet to meet?