Chapter XIX

It was autumn: and a night
Full of whispers and of mist,
With a gray moon, wanly whist,
Hanging like a phantom light
O'er the hills. We stood among
Windy fields of weed and flower,
Where the withered seed-pod hung,
And the chill leaf-cricket sung.
Melancholy was the hour
With the mystery and loneness
Of the year, that seemed to look
On its own departed face--
As our love then, in its oneness,
All its dead past did retrace,
And from that sad moment took
Presage of approaching parting.--
Sorrowful the hour and dark:
Low among the trees, now darting,
Now concealed, a lamp's pale spark--
Like a fen-fire--winked and lured
Shut among the shadows, where
All was doubtful, unassured,
Immaterial; and bare
Facts of unideal day
Changed to substance such as dreams.
And meseemed then, far away--
Farther than remotest gleams
Of the stars--lost, separated,
And estranged and out of reach,
Grew our lives away from each,
Far away as it was fated.

XX

There is no gladness in the day
Now you're away;
Dull is the morn, the noon is dull,
Once beautiful;
And when the sunset fills the skies
With dusking dyes,
With tired eyes and tired heart
I sit alone, I sigh apart,
And wish for you,
For only you.

Ah! darker now the night comes on
Since you are gone;
Sad are the stars, the moon is sad,
Once wholly glad;
And when the stars and moon are set,
And earth lies wet,
With heart's regret and soul's hard ache,
I dream alone, I lie awake,
And think of you,
Of only you.

These, who once spake me, speak no more,
Now all is o'er;
Day hath forgot the language of
Its hopes of love;
Night, whose sweet lips were burdensome
With dreams, is dumb;
Far different from what used to be
With grief and loss they speak to me,
They speak of you,
Of only you.