Because our talk was of the
And moon-track of the journeying face of Fate,
Her tremulous kisses faltered at love's
And her eyes dreamed against a distant goal:
But soon, remembering her how brief the
Of joy, which its own hours annihilate,
Her set gaze gathered, thirstier than of late,
And as she kissed, her mouth became her soul.
Thence in what ways we wandered, and how
To build with fire-tried vows the piteous
Which memory haunts and whither sleep may roam,—They only know for whom the roof of
Is the still-seated secret of the grove,
Nor spire may rise nor bell be heard therefrom.
