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.