That bullied and blustered and seemed in league,
Like a spiteful shrew, with the wind and the snow,
To drown the words of their sweet intrigue,
With the boom of the boughs tossed to and fro,
That the storm swept through with its wild-beast low.
Her last words these, "By curfew sure,
On Christmas eve, at the postern door."
And we were there; with a led horse too;
Armed for a journey—I hardly knew