THE MIDNIGHT GUEST. 289
Shall the vine, reaching upward no longer,
To the plane of the oak never rise, Catching now by the blossoming bramble ?
Is it true? Being true, is it wise?
I whisper no word of such musing,
I say pretty words of the ring, Hoping Love hath some infinite wisdom
To answer my heart s questioning.
��THE MIDNIGHT GUEST.
" TT is better so." Twas a woman s moan, 1 Full of stifled tears. Where the lamplight
Through a vine-clad window, its ruddy glare Made a lane of light in the sweet dark air, For the rose that laughed in the sun all day Dewy-laden hung in the yellow ray, Where the tall white lilies shone out like stars, And the very gate seemed of golden bars.
Weary, weak, and wan, like a hopeless shade, Starting oft, as though of the winds afraid, Like a spectre born of the solemn Night, A woman stood in the lane of light. Her unfastened hair in the dew-fall shone, And her face was set like a face of stone, As she muttered o er, turning still to go, "It is better, darling yes, better so."