I

A night of rain. The wind is out. And I had wished it otherwise: A calm, still night; no scudding skies; Or, in the scud, above the rout, The moon; by whose pale light my eyes Might meet her eyes; the smile that tries To come but will not; lips, that pout With seeming anger, all surmise, When I have said “I love your lies”-- Lips I shall kiss before she dies.