Page:The Yellow Book - 04.djvu/61

That guards my true-love in her grassy bed;
My faith and troth are hers, and hers alone,
Are hers . . . . and she is dead."

Weeping, she drew her veil about her face,
And faint her accents were and dull with pain;
"Poor Vespertilia! gone her days of grace,
Now doth she plead for love—and plead in vain:
None praise her beauty now, or woo her smile!
* * * * *
Ah, hadst thou loved me but a little while,
I might have lived again.
Then slowly as a wave along the shore
She glided from me to yon sullen mound;
My frozen heart, relenting, smote me sore—
Too late—I searched the hollow slopes around,
Swiftly I followed her, but nothing found,
Nor saw nor heard her more.

And now, alas, my true-love's memory
Even as a dream of night-time half-forgot,
Fades faint and far from me,
And all my thoughts are of the stranger still,
Yea, though I loved her not:
I loved her not—and yet—I fain would see,
Upon the wind-swept hill,
Her dark veil fluttering in the autumn breeze;
Fain would I hear her changeful voice awhile,
Soft as the wind of spring-tide in the trees,
And watch her slow, sweet smile.

Ever