VII.

I will not look on her nearer, My heart would be torn in twain; From my eyes the garden would vanish In the falling of their rain.

I will not look on a sorrow That darkens into despair, On the surge of a heart that cannot Yet cannot cease to bear.

My soul to hers would be calling: She would hear no word it said! If I cried aloud in the stillness She would never turn her head!

She is dreaming the sky above her, She is dreaming the earth below:— This night she lost her lover A hundred years ago.