What to her was the look I gave Of love despised!--Though she seemed to start, Seeing; and said, with a quick hand-wave, "Why, one would think that _that_ was your heart," While her face with a sudden thought grew grave.
But I answered nothing. And so to her home We came in the eve; slow-falling, clear With a few first stars and a crescent of foam, The twilight dusked; and we heard from the mere The distant boom of a bittern come.
Would you think that she loved me?--Who could say?-- What a riddle unread was she to me!-- When I kissed her fingers and turned away I wanted to speak, but--what cared she, Though her eyes looked soft and she bade me stay!
Though she lingered to watch me--That might be A slim moonbeam or a shred of haze,-- But never my Lady's drapery Or wistful face!--in the woodbine maze. Valora of Verne--why, what cared she!
So the days went by, and the Summer wore Its hot heart out; and, a mighty slayer, The Autumn harried the land and shore, And the world grew red with its wrecks; then grayer Than ghosts of the dreams of the nevermore.
The sheaves of the Summer had long been bound; The harvests of Autumn had long been past; And the snows of the Winter lay deep around, When the hard news came and I knew at last; And the reigning woe of my heart was crowned.
So I sought her here: the old Earl's bride: In the ancient room, at the oriel dreaming, Pale as the blooms in her hair; and, wide, The dented satin, flung stormily, gleaming Like beaten silver, twilight-dyed.
I marked as I stole to her side that tears Were vaguely large in her beautiful eyes; That the loops of pearls on her throat, and years-- Old lace on her bosom were heaved with sighs: And I said to her softly:--"It appears"--
Then stopped with, it seemed, my soul in my eyes-- "That you are not happy, Valora of Verne! There is that at your heart which--well, denies These mocking mummeries.--Live and learn!-- And is it the truth or only lies?--
"You must hear me now! whom I oft with my heart,-- In words of the soul, that are silent in speech,-- Whispered my love; too sacred for art; But yours never heard--for I could not reach Yours in that world of which you are part.
"That world, where I saw you as one afar Sees palms and waters, and knows that sands, Pitiless sands, before him are; Yet follows ever with reaching hands Till he sinks at last.--You were my star,