Snowing the blooms from her finger-tips,
Tossing them down for her feet to tread.
What to her was the look I gave
Of love despised!—Though she seemed to start,
Seeing; and said, with a quick hand-wave,
"Why, one would think that that was your heart,"
While her face with a sudden thought grew grave.
But I answered nothing. And so to her home
We came in the eve; slow-falling, clear
With a few first stars and a crescent of foam,