HERE are the tracks upon the sand

Where stood last evening she and I— Pressed heart to heart and hand to hand; The morning sun has baked them dry.

I kissed her wet face—wet with rain, For arid grief had burnt up tears, While reached us as in sleeping pain The distant gurgling of the weirs.

“I have married him—yes; feel that ring; ’Tis a week ago that he put it on . . . A dutiful daughter does this thing, And resignation succeeds anon!

“But that I body and soul was yours Ere he’d possession, he’ll never know. He’s a confident man. ‘The husband scores,’ He says, ‘in the long run’ . . . Now, Dear, go!”

I went. And to-day I pass the spot; It is only a smart the more to endure; And she whom I held is as though she were not, For they have resumed their honeymoon tour.