Dismount, then kneel—and the sombre shaw,
With the sad of the autumn waste and bleak,
Grew spring with her smile, as the hawk she took
On her slender wrist, where it pruned and shook
Its callowness. Then I saw him seize
The hand that she reached to him, long and white,
As she smilingly bade him rise from his knees—
When he kissed her fingers her eyes grew bright.
But her cheeks were pallid when, lashing through
The thicket there, his face a-flare