Page:The Yellow Book - 04.djvu/61

Rh 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