The moonlight makes a pattern on the sill
Of light and shadow, alternating bands,
Like inky ocean waves on silver sands—
And on the quilt, each fold a rumpled hill
Down which the moonlight flows in rivers still,
And at the window, lonely still she stands,
The curtain-cord entwined in her white hands,
And silently, with tears her wide eyes fill.
She tries in vain to keep the tears at bay;
Her eyes with hopeless love and anguish burn.
Of all the world, but one can ease her pain;
Where is he now, the man who rode away?
He kissed her brow and promised to return—
She fears—she knows—he will not come again.
|