That time I gave you half-a-moon of days In the dear Southern land of many moods She lured us up among her hill-ringed ways Far from the ordered gardens, far from where, Sacring the sky, the Christs hang on their roods. We saw the sea-grey slopes of olive-trees Blown foamy-pale, from the cloud-ridden air Fell the swift shadows on those leafy seas. To lakes of hardened lava we would come, Scarred, as by whirlpools, with cold crater-rings Or packed in furrows, like mammoth slugs grown numb At some disaster of creation's dawn-- A burnt-out lunar landscape of dead things. And there some kindlier whim of path would show Rocks that might echo to a piping Faun, Or hide a huntress nymph with spear and bow. Pan-haunted is that valley where we lay (Lay, till lulled senses slid into a dream) Watching sun-wrought reflections of ripples play And break in shining scales through that green pool, Deepest of seven strung on a ribbon of stream That seven times wings the air in curving flight. And from the gleaming arc blew spray to cool Lids that were rosy films against the light. A hut with fluted roof we found one morn, A fairy-story hut; an empty shrine Haply once dear to comrades less forlorn, For on the walls were names of lover-folk. And there we ate our bread and drank our wine, A Sacrament of Fellowship; only dregs We poured to envious gods, and laughing broke Thrush-like, against a stone, our brown-shelled eggs. Dearest that castle set in sun and winds Remote as though upon Olympus hung, Yet with a human tang that drew our minds To gentle restful things; an open door, Warm hearths, silk-curtained beds, and shutters flung Wing-wide to let us watch the stars pulsating. Now through closed slats their light must bar the floor And on the hearth the ash be grey with waiting. And when for daily troubles you make dole (Now that the miles have set you far away) Then to our little castle come in soul. There, where the two girl-children thought us wed, There, surely, I need never say you nay; But, where the hollow curves between the breast And rounded shoulder, draw your weary head, And, when the day's lid droops, there give you rest. The weakness of you I can hold to me, For since at the world's door the babes unborn Must vainly beat for us; oh, I will be A Virgin-Mother to the child in you. . . . And comradeship is good when sweetly sworn, Being no less tender for its commonplace And for its lack of fetters no less true-- Take what you may, my dear, and with good grace.