I.

Low—low Over a perishing after-glow, A thin, red shred of moon Trailed. In the windless air The poplars all ranked lean and chill. The smell of winter loitered there, And the Year's heart felt still. Yet not so far away Seemed the mad Spring, But that, as lovers will, I let my laughing heart go play, As it had been a fond maid's frolicking; And, turning thrice the gold I'd got, In the good gloom Solemnly wished me—what? What, and with whom?