About an ash—hoary and cold and wise.
Across the spent fires of the night they flit,
And often when the day grows pale, they sit,
Like monarchs, on a vanished enterprise.
Ah, even thus my young love would endure!
Without her light the moon would still express
Her strength, in shadows not yet bodiless—
Hoary and cold and wise: thus am I sure.
IV.
I have addressed you with love’s first address: