And, what is stranger far, she too,
Under the baleful influence
of this fair heaven"—he raised his eyes,
And gestured proudly toward the stars—
"Has done me wrong. Wrong, lady, mars
God's purpose, written on these skies,
Painted and uttered in this scene:
Acknowledged in each secret heart;
We both are wrong, you say; 'twould mean
That we too should be wide apart—
And so, adieu!"—with this he went.
I sat down whitening in the moon,
With heat as of a desert noon,
Sending its fever vehement
Across my brow, and through my frame—
The fever of a wild regret—
A vain regret without a name,
In which both love and loathing met.
Was this the same enchanted air
I breathed one little hour ago?
Did all these purple roses blow
But yestermorn, so sweet, so fair?
Was it this eve that some one said
"Come out into the garden, Maud?"
And while the sleepy birds o'erhead
Chirped out to know who walked abroad,
Did we admire the plumey flowers
On the wide-branched catalpa trees,
And locusts, scenting all the breeze;
And call the balm-trees our bird-towers?
Did we recall the "black bat Night,"
That flew before young Maud walked forth—
And say this Night's wings were too bright
