Xvii

She tarries at the gate a moment, watching him disappear down the lane. He sings, and the sound of his singing grows fainter and fainter and at last dies away in the distance:

Say, my heart, O my heart, These be the eves for speaking! There is no wight will work us spite Beneath the sunset’s streaking.

Yes, my sweet, O my sweet, Now is the time for telling! To walk together in starry weather Down lanes with elder smelling.

O my heart, yes, my heart, Now is the time for saying! When lost in dreams each wildflower seems And every blossom praying.

Lean, my sweet, listen, sweet,-- No sweeter time than this is,-- So says the rose, the moth that knows,-- To take sweet toll in kisses.