Its tremulous beauty with mists that quench.—
Heigho!—but they ceased, those meetings. I wot
Watched of the baron, his menial crew;
For she loved too well to have once forgot
The place and the time of their trysting true.
But she came not—ah! and again came not:
"Why and when?" would question Sir Hugh
In his labored scrawls a crevice of rock—
The lovers' post—in its coigne would lock.
Until near Yule Love gat them again