I

He bends his travel-tarnished feet

   To where she wastes in clay:

From day-dawn until eve he fares

   Along the wintry way;

From day-dawn until eve repairs

   Unto her mound to pray.

II

“Are these the gravestone shapes that meet

   My forward-straining view?

Or forms that cross a window-blind

   In circle, knot, and queue:

Gay forms, that cross and whirl and wind

   To music throbbing through?”—

III

“The Keeper of the Field of Tombs

   Dwells by its gateway-pier;

He celebrates with feast and dance

   His daughter’s twentieth year:

He celebrates with wine of France

   The birthday of his dear.”—

IV

“The gates are shut when evening glooms:

   Lay down your wreath, sad wight;

To-morrow is a time more fit

   For placing flowers aright:

The morning is the time for it;

   Come, wake with us to-night!”—

V

He grounds his wreath, and enters in,

   And sits, and shares their cheer.—

“I fain would foot with you, young man,

   Before all others here;

I fain would foot it for a span

   With such a cavalier!”

VI

She coaxes, clasps, nor fails to win

   His first-unwilling hand:

The merry music strikes its staves,

   The dancers quickly band;

And with the damsel of the graves

   He duly takes his stand.

VII

“You dance divinely, stranger swain,

   Such grace I’ve never known.

O longer stay!  Breathe not adieu

   And leave me here alone!

O longer stay: to her be true

   Whose heart is all your own!”—

VIII

“I mark a phantom through the pane,

   That beckons in despair,

Its mouth all drawn with heavy moan—

   Her to whom once I sware!”—

“Nay; ’tis the lately carven stone

   Of some strange girl laid there!”—

IX

“I see white flowers upon the floor

   Betrodden to a clot;

My wreath were they?”—“Nay; love me much,

   Swear you’ll forget me not!

’Twas but a wreath!  Full many such

   Are brought here and forgot.”

* * * * * * *

X

The watches of the night grow hoar,

   He rises ere the sun;

“Now could I kill thee here!” he says,

   “For winning me from one

Who ever in her living days

   Was pure as cloistered nun!”

XI

She cowers, and he takes his track

   Afar for many a mile,

For evermore to be apart

   From her who could beguile

His senses by her burning heart,

   And win his love awhile.

XII

A year: and he is travelling back

   To her who wastes in clay;

From day-dawn until eve he fares

   Along the wintry way,

From day-dawn until eve repairs

   Unto her mound to pray.

XIII

And there he sets him to fulfil

   His frustrate first intent:

And lay upon her bed, at last,

   The offering earlier meant:

When, on his stooping figure, ghast

   And haggard eyes are bent.

XIV

“O surely for a little while

   You can be kind to me!

For do you love her, do you hate,

   She knows not—cares not she:

Only the living feel the weight

   Of loveless misery!

XV

“I own my sin; I’ve paid its cost,

   Being outcast, shamed, and bare:

I give you daily my whole heart,

   Your babe my tender care,

I pour you prayers; and aye to part

   Is more than I can bear!”

XVI

He turns—unpitying, passion-tossed;

   “I know you not!” he cries,

“Nor know your child.  I knew this maid,

   But she’s in Paradise!”

And swiftly in the winter shade

   He breaks from her and flies.