Joan

Or some November eve belike Thou wandering back with bow and tyke From wolf-chase on the wind-swept hill Shall find that narrow vale and still, And Pharamond and Azalais Amidmost of that grassy place Where we twain met last year, whereby Red-shafted pine-trunks rise on high, And changeless now from year to year, What change soever brought them there, Great rocks are scattered all around: --Wouldst thou be frightened at the sound Of their soft speech? So long ago It was since first their love did grow.