And his proud mouth had sealed on hers the proudest right
That lovely tenderness may plan in gardens of the West.
And so the moon grew white to silver all the lawns,
While the garden wicket grows more white because a shadow near
Has come to steal the wakened joy of any further dawns.
The hand upon the wicket trembles, the vision is not clear
Of the one woman in the garden who is so quiet and still.
At last the shadow enters and knows a form has sudden fled,
And now is lonely weeping upon a haunted hill—
For with it entered a company of France's hidden dead.