Viii

Some whim of Marta’s shields me from the night, And fretted that my curtain should be kept Close drawn, and wakeful candles over bright, I welcomed in the quiet moon and slept;

Then woke again in fear--the night was old, The witching tide of silver shut away, And Marta’s shaking hand on mine was cold, Her bending face above me strange and grey.

“Who sleeps beneath the moon,” she whispered low, “Must pale with her, nor wind nor noon-day sky Be his again whose pulses beat more slow, More faint, till with the waning moon ... they die.”