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410

XVII. MOONSHINE

He talked of daggers and of darts.
Of passions and of pains,
Of weeping eyes and wounded hearts,
Of kisses and of chains;
He said though Love was kin to Grief
She was not born to grieve;
He said though many rued belief
She safely might believe.
But still the Lady shook her head,
And swore by yea and nay
My Whole was all that he had said,
And all that he could say.
He said my First, whose silent car
Was slowly wandering by,
Veiled in a vapour, faint and far,
Through the unfathomed sky,
Was like the smile whose rosy light
Across her young lips past,
Yet oh! it was not half so bright,
It changed not half so fast.
411

But still the Lady shook her head,
And swore by yea and nay
My Whole was all that he had said,
And all that he could say.
And then he set a cypress wreath
Upon his raven hair,
And drew his rapier from its sheath,
Which made the Lady stare;
And said, his life-blood's purple flow
My Second there should dim
If she he served and worshipped so
Would weep one tear for him.—
But still the Lady shook her head.
And swore by yea and nay
My Whole was all that he had said,
And all that he could say.
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