IN A WOOD

There runs a pathway through the wood Where lace the boughs and all is good. The beech-boles don a robe of white And gleam like ghosts at dayspring light, When first the pure, canorous note Throbs from a waking blackbird’s throat; And down the long aisle dim Another answers him. Often they met, the girl and boy At this still hour; it was her joy To share a kiss at peep of day Before he took his working way. Then light of heart the youngster went, Leaving the little maid content To seek her home near by The forest boundary. But when at evening back he came Where the beech-boles were all aflame With ruddy fire along the glade, She leapt from out some stealthy shade. And dawdling once when sunset shone, He cut their letters, one in one, Upon an ancient stem, And drew a heart around them. Then rose the red, accursed star, And honour swept her boy afar; While she, sore hindered and forlorn, Still heard the blackbird sing at morn, Still felt her heart with each sun sink, Knowing he stood upon the brink, Prayed on in hope and trust— Until the boy was dust. Life brought its anodyne of years, To dull young griefs and dry young tears, And Time, who knows not to stand still, Sent a new lover up the hill. A wife and mother now she goes And plays with her first baby’s toes— The name in memory Spoken without a sigh. And grey upon the beech’s rind, Foregone, forgotten, out of mind, Two woven letters may be told When dawns are white and eves are gold; Where his aubade the blackbird makes, Or sleepy, sweet good-even takes; And down the long aisle dim Another answers him.