Xvii

Looking on the desolate street, Where the first snow drifts and drives, Trodden black of hurrying feet, Where the athlete storm-wind strives With each tree and dangling light,-- Centres, sphered with glittering white,-- Hissing in the dancing snow ... Backward in my mind I go To that tempest-haunted night Of two autumns past, when we, Hastening homeward, were o'ertaken Of the storm; and 'neath a tree, With its wild leaves tempest-shaken, Sheltered us in that forsaken, Sad and ancient cemetery,-- Where folk came no more to bury.-- Haggard gravestones, mossed and crumbled, Tottered round us, or o'ertumbled In their sunken graves; and some, Urned and obelisked above Iron-fenced-in tombs, stood dumb Records of forgotten love. And again I see the west Yawning inward to its core Of electric-spasmed ore, Swiftly, without pause or rest: And a great wind sweeps the dust Up abandoned sidewalks; and, In the rotting trees, the gust Shouts again--a voice that would Make its gaunt self understood Moaning over Death's lean land.-- And we sat there, hand in hand; On the granite; where we read, By the instant skies o'erhead, Something of one young and dead. Yet the words begot no fear In our souls: you leaned your cheek Smiling on mine: very near Were our lips: we did not speak.