Classic Poem

She sat under the naked bough
——In an autumn moon's sharp shade,
Her two hands clasped about her knee,
——And not a move she made.
On crisp, dead leaves I walked to her
——And said, “Thou art the Morrow's Norn,”
And “Verily” she answered me,
——Lifting her eyes forlorn.
Then with a slow and solemn sign
——I said “Be mine.”

She shook her head, but her rimey hair
——Spread not upon the wind.
And it froze me so to see her there,
——Till my own chilled heart grew kind;
I touched her shoulder hard as stone,
——I pressed my hot lips to her eye,
And wrapt my cloak about her, soft
——With a heart-warm sigh,
Saying again with many a sign
——“Be ever mine.”

She looked as when the spark goes out
——In ashes that all are dead.
I left her, over the crisp dead leaves
——And quicklier too I sped,
For I heard as out of a fold of wind
——While the white moon stood above the line
'Mid shadows moved like creeping coils
——Of a poisoned ivy vine,