I thought, my Heart, that you had healed

Of those sore smartings of the past,

And that the summers had oversealed

   All mark of them at last.

But closely scanning in the night

I saw them standing crimson-bright

      Just as she made them:

      Nothing could fade them;

      Yea, I can swear

      That there they were—

      They still were there!

Then the Vision of her who cut them came,

And looking over my shoulder said,

“I am sure you deal me all the blame

   For those sharp smarts and red;

But meet me, dearest, to-morrow night,

In the churchyard at the moon’s half-height,

      And so strange a kiss

      Shall be mine, I wis,

      That you’ll cease to know

      If the wounds you show

      Be there or no!”