She sat alone, on a cold grey stone,
Where the river made a desolate moan.
The sycamore trees stood white and bare,
Like sheeted ghosts in the dusky air.
A black cloud floated along the sky,
And a night-bird utter’d a dismal cry.
Sadly she thought of the innocent time,
Wildly she wept for her shame and crime.
Darker and deeper the shadows grow:
He promised to meet her an hour ago.
She sat alone, on the cold grey stone,
And the river flow’d with a sadder moan.
She heard the hum of the distant town,
The patter of dead leaves falling down.
She heard the toad in the long dank grass,
But never his tread,—alas, alas!
The morning came with its golden light,
To the sycamore trees so bare and white.
The mists that slept on the river’s brim
Went up like the wings of the cherubim.
The water-lilies so cold and fair
Were tangled with tresses of bright brown hair.
The osiers bent with a quiet grace
Over a form with a still, white face.
The river flow’d with a desolate moan,
And dead leaves fell on the cold grey stone.