Nothing was said by them; they understood, They searched each other’s eyes without a sound, Alone with moonlight in the heart of the wood, Knowing the stars and all the soul of the ground. "Mary," he murmured. "Come." His arms went round, A white moth glimmered by, the woods were hushed; The rose at Mary’s bosom dropped its petals, crushed. No word profaned the peace of that glad giving, But the warm dimness of the night stood still, Drawing all beauty to the point of living, There in the beech-tree’s shadow on the hill. Spirit to spirit murmured; mingling will Made them one being; Time’s decaying thought Fell from them like a rag; it was the soul they sought. The moonlight found an opening in the boughs; It entered in, it filled that sacred place With consecration on the throbbing brows; It came with benediction and with grace. A whispering came from face to yearning face: "Beloved, will you wait for me?" "My own." "I shall be gone three years, you will be left alone; "You’ll trust and wait for me?" "Yes, yes," she sighed; She would wait any term of years, all time-- So faithful to first love these souls abide, Carrying a man’s soul with them as they climb. Life was all flower to them; the church bells’ chime Rang out the burning hour ere they had sealed Love’s charter there below the June sky’s starry field. Sweetly the church bells’ music reached the wood, Chiming an old slow tune of some old hymn, Calling them back to life from where they stood Under the moonlit beech-tree grey and dim. "Mary," he murmured; pressing close to him, Her kiss came on the gift he gave her there, A silken scarf that bore her name worked in his hair. But still the two affixed their hands and seals To a life compact witnessed by the sky, Where the great planets drove their glittering wheels, Bringing conflicting fate, making men die. They loved, and she would wait, and he would try. "Oh, beauty of my love," "My lovely man." So beauty made them noble for their little span. Time cannot pause, however dear the wooer; The moon declined, the sunrise came, the hours, Left to the lovers, dwindled swiftly fewer, Even as the seeds from dandelion-flowers Blow, one by one, until the bare stalk cowers, And the June grass grows over; even so Daffodil-picker Time took from their lives the glow, Stole their last walk along the three green fields, Their latest hour together; he took, he stole The white contentment that a true love yields; He took the triumph out of Mary’s soul. Now she must lie awake and blow the coal Of sorrow of heart. The parting hour came; They kissed their last good-bye, murmuring the other’s name. Then the flag waved, the engine snorted, then Slowly the couplings tautened, and the train Moved, bearing off from her her man of men; She looked towards its going blind with pain. Her father turned and drove her home again. It was a different home. Awhile she tried To cook the dinner there, but flung her down and cried.