Did she think it me or—what,
Clutching her dress?
Her face so pinched that not
A star in a stormy spot
Shows half as much distress.
15.
Did I speak? did she answer aught?
O God! had I said
"Aimee, 't is I!" but naught!—
And the mist and the moon distraught
Stared with me on her—dead....
16.
This is the tale they tell
Of the Hallowe'en;
This is the thing that befell
Me and the village Belle,
Beautiful Aimee Dean.
MATER DOLOROSA.
The nuns sing, "ora pro nobis,"
The lancets glitter above;
And the beautiful Virgin whose robe is
Woven of infinite love,
Infinite love and sorrow,
Prays for them there on high;—
Who has most need of her prayers,—to-morrow
Shall tell them,—they or I?