In the labored letters he used to lock
—The lovers' post—in a coigne of that rock.
She used to answer, but now did not.
But, nearing Yule, love gat them again
A twilight tryst—through frowardness sure!—
They met. And the day was gray with rain,
And snow: and the wind did ever endure
A long bleak moaning through the wood,
That chapped i' the cheek and smarted the blood;
And a burne in the forest went throb and throb,