Thus mockingly spoke Habberton,
“And where’s the picture of your dear
That kissed you in the August sun?”
Her breast her shaking hands did feel,
Where something stung them like a weal,
—She ground the picture under heel.
And the glad wind, and the loud rain
Beat at the shuttering eaves in vain,
And the aching summer comes again.
The grain stands high in the meadow now,