To which now and then she pressed
Her finger tips; but as she slackened pace
And turned and looked at you it grew quite bare:
There was not anything you did not dare:—
Like trumpeters the hours passed until the last day of the Fair.
In the Place d’Armes all afternoon
The building birds had sung “Soon, soon,”
The shuttered streets slept sound that night,
It was full moon:
The path into the wood was almost white,