Besides the faggot’s feebly flickering light
You rock, an aged crone, your hands outspread;
In high, cracked voice you sing of him as dead
Who mocks you, hurling leaves in his fierce flight;
You pluck your shawl with finger pale and slight,
And muse at last upon the waiting bed,
And musing, nod, grown careless of its dread
Awaiting absently the falling night.
When you were May, sweet-mouthed with joy replete,
When he, enchanted, ceased from wanderings
To kiss you, soft-garmented in perfume sweet,
You little dreamed, when by the laughing springs
You danced – an ignorant maid on fine, veined feet,
Singing your happy songs; how swift his wings.