| He. Never until this night have I been stirred. |
| The elaborate star-light throws a reflection |
| On the dark
stream, |
| Till all the eddies gleam; |
| And thereupon there comes that scream |
| From terrified, invisible beast
or bird: |
| Image of poignant recollection. |
|
|
|
|
| She. An image of my heart that is smitten through |
| Out of all
likelihood, or reason, |
| And when at last, |
| Youth’s bitterness being past, |
| I had thought that all my days
were cast |
| Amid most lovely places; smitten as though |
| It had not learned its lesson. |
|
|
|
|
| He. Why have you
laid your hands upon my eyes? |
| What can have suddenly alarmed you |
| Whereon ’twere best |
| My eyes
should never rest? |
| What is there but the slowly fading west, |
| The river imaging the flashing skies, |
| All that
to this moment charmed you? |
|
|
|
|
| She. A sweetheart from another life floats there |
| As though she had been
forced to linger |
| From vague distress |
| Or arrogant loveliness, |
| Merely to loosen out a tress |
| Among the
starry eddies of her hair |
| Upon the paleness of a finger. |
|
|
|
|
| He. But why should you grow suddenly afraid |
| And
start—I at your shoulder— |
| Imagining |
| That any night could bring |
| An image up, or anything |
| Even to
eyes that beauty had driven mad, |
| But images to make me fonder? |
|
|
|
|
| She. Now she has thrown her arms
above her head; |
| Whether she threw them up to flout me, |
| Or but to find, |
| Now that no fingers bind, |
| That
her hair streams upon the wind, |
| I do not know, that know I am afraid |
| Of the hovering thing night brought
me. |
