Xix

It was autumn: and a night Full of whispers and of mist, With a gray moon, wanly whist, Hanging like a phantom light O'er the hills. We stood among Windy fields of weed and flower, Where the withered seed-pod hung, And the chill leaf-cricket sung. Melancholy was the hour With the mystery and loneness Of the year, that seemed to look On its own departed face-- As our love then, in its oneness, All its dead past did retrace, And from that sad moment took Presage of approaching parting.-- Sorrowful the hour and dark: Low among the trees, now darting, Now concealed, a lamp's pale spark-- Like a fen-fire--winked and lured Shut among the shadows, where All was doubtful, unassured, Immaterial; and bare Facts of unideal day Changed to substance such as dreams. And meseemed then, far away-- Farther than remotest gleams Of the stars--lost, separated, And estranged and out of reach, Grew our lives away from each, Far away as it was fated.