Chapter II

I see the farm-house where my Grace abides; The afternoon is clear, the grass is green; And Grace comes forth and walks toward the brook. Beside its bank, which is a slope of moss, I see the face intent upon the scene. Now Grace draws near, and starting back to find A stranger in the dell she loves the most, Is half attracted by his cultured mien, And half repelled by inconsistent fears. He rises, bowing low, and begs to speak: He has not seen such beauty in his life; He craves to touch a finger of her hand, To judge if she be of the earth, or one Upon some holy mission from that land Whereto, with fastings and with many prayers, Through God's good grace he hopes yet to attain.

Then John Bernard, who has been working near, Seeding the furrows for his empty barns, This stranger and my Grace puts hand in hand. I see her smile in answer to his smiles. She makes her ears his cells for honeyed speech; And yet she seems to fear him for some cause. Now, as the slow sun tarries on the hills, I see them parting at the farm-house door-- The wide half-door which now is opened half-- And as he passes down the bordered path, His kiss still lingering upon her hand, She leans out from the door, and watches him Until he vanishes between the trees. I seem to see her face, a trouble sweet Dwelling upon it, even though the light Sets it in glory, with a slender ring Above the white brow and the golden hair.

III.

I see them riding down the village street: He on a horse as black and strong as iron, She on her snowy palfrey, robed in green, Slack reins in hand; the horses side by side. Even as I see and write, my heart grows cold-- Cold as a bird that on a winter's day Breasts the bleak wind, high in the biting air.