  One summer eve, in the woodbine bower We sat once more at the window lonely; The moon arose with life-giving power, But we appear’d two spectres only. Twelve years had pass’d since the last occasion When we on this spot had sat together; Each tender glow, each loving persuasion Had meanwhile been quench’d in life’s rough weather. I silently sat. The woman, however, Just like her sex, amongst love’s ashes Must needs be raking, but vain her endeavour To kindle again its long-quench’d flashes. And she recounted how she had contended With evil thoughts, the story disclosing How hardly she once her virtue defended,— I stupidly listened to all her prosing. When homeward I rode, the trees beside me Like spirits beneath the moon’s rays flitted; Sad voices call’d, but onward I hied me, Yes, I and the dead, who my side ne’er quitted. |
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