But the night wind murmured low,
Softly brushing back your hair,
"Look into her face, and know
That she is a jewel rare,
Worthy of a monarch's heir;
Who are you that you should dare!"
Hope died like a frost-touched flower;
But through all the coming years,
In that quiet evening hour,
When the flowers are all in tears,
When the heart hath hopes and fears,
When the day-world disappears.
If the vine leaves rustle low,
If the moon shine on the sea,
If the night wind softly blow,—
Dreaming of what may not be,—
Well I know that I shall see
Your sweet eyes look down on me.
REDUCTIO AD ABSURDUM.
I had come from the city early
That Saturday afternoon;
I sat with Beatrix under the trees
In the mossy orchard; the golden bees
Buzzed over clover-tops, pink and pearly;
I was at peace, and inclined to spoon.
We were stopping awhile with mother,
At the quiet country place
Where first we'd met, one blossomy May,
And fallen in love—so the dreamy day
Brought to my memory many another
In the happy time when I won her grace.
Days in the bright Spring weather,
When the twisted, rough old tree
Showered down apple-blooms, dainty and sweet,
That swung in her hair, and blushed at her feet;
Sweet was her face as we lingered together,
And dainty the kisses my love gave me.
"Dear love, are you recalling
The old days, too?" I said.
Her sweet eyes filled, and with tender grace
She turned and rested her blushing face
Against my shoulder; a sunbeam falling
Through the leaves above us crowned her head.