The moon was full, the fields were gleaming;
By hood and tippet sheltered sweet
Her face with youth and health was beaming.
The little hand outside her muff—
O sculptor, if you could but mould it!
So slightly touched my jacket-cuff,
To keep it warm I had to hold it.
To have her with me there alone,
’Twas love and fear and triumph blended:
At last we reached the foot-worn stone