_As if to press the old moon back_ _Into its place behind the trees._ _The trees stood where the hill was black;_ _They were not vexed by any breeze._
_The moon was not as it had been_ _Before, when she had watched it rise;_ _It was misshapen now, and thin,_ _As if some trouble in the skies_
_Had happened more than it could bear,_ _Its color, too, was no more red;_ _Nor was it like her yellow hair;—_ _It looked as if its soul were dead._
I, who was once well-loved of him, Am as a beggar by his gate Whereon black carvéd things look grim At one who thinks to penetrate.
I do not ask if I may stray Once more in those desired lands; Another night, yet one more day, For these I do not make demands;
For when the ripened hour is past Things such as these are asked in vain: His first day’s love,—were that the last I were repaid for this new pain.
Out of his love great joy I had For many days; and even now I do not dare to be but glad When I remember, often, how
He said he had great joy of me. The while he loved, no man, I think, Exceeded him in constancy; My passion, even, seemed to shrink
Almost to nothing, when he came And told me all of love’s strange things: The paths love trod, love’s eyes of flame, Its silent hours, its rapid wings....
_The moon still waited, watching her_ _(The cloud still stretched there, close above;_ _The trees beneath); it could not stir,_ _And yet it seemed the shape thereof,_
_Since she looked first, some change had known._ _In places it had burned away,_ _And one side had much thinner grown;_ _—What light that came from it was gray._
_It was not curved from east to west._ _But lay upon its back; like one_ _Wounded, or weary of some quest,_ _Or by strong enemies undone._
_Elsewhere no stars were in the sky;_ _She knew they were burned out and dead_ _Because no clouds went, drifting by,_ _Across the light the strange moon shed._
Now, I can hope for naught but death. I would not stay to give him pain, Or say the words a woman saith When love hath called aloud in vain
And got no answer anywhere. It were far better I should die, And have rough strangers come to bear My body far away, where I
Shall know the quiet of the tomb; That they should leave me, with no tears, To think and think within the gloom For many years, for many years.