They told her: "Go alone, With never a word, To the burial-plot's unknown Grave with the oldest stone, When the clock on twelve is heard. V "Three times around it pass, With never a sound; Each time a wisp of grass And myrtle pluck; then pass Out of the ghostly ground. VI "And the bridegroom that's to be, At smiling wait, With a face like mist to see, With graceful gallantry Will bow you to the gate." VII She laughed at this and so Bespoke us how To the burial-place she'd go.-- And I was glad to know, For I'd be there to bow. VIII An acre from the farm The village dead Lay walled from sun and storm; Old cedars, of priestly form, Waved darkly overhead. IX I loved; but never could say The words to her; And waited, day by day, Nursing the hope that lay Under the doubts that were.-- X She passed 'neath the iron arch Of the legended ground;-- And the moon, like a twisted torch, Burned over one lonesome larch;-- She passed with never a sound. XI Three times the circle traced; Three times she bent To the grave that the myrtle graced; Three times--then softly faced Homeward and slowly went. XII Had the moonlight changed me so? Or fear undone Her stepping soft and slow? Did she see and did not know? Or loved she another one? XIII Who knows?--She turned to flee With a face so white It haunts and will haunt me:-- The wind blew gustily: The graveyard gate clanged tight. XIV Did she think it I or--what, Clutching her dress? Her face so wild that not A star in a stormy spot Shows half so much distress. XV I spoke; but she answered naught. "Amy," I said, "'Tis I!"--as her form I caught... Then laughed like one distraught, For the beautiful girl was dead!... XVI This is the tale they tell Of that Hallowe'en; This is the thing that befell Me and the village belle, Beautiful Amy Dean. MATER DOLOROSA The nuns sing, "_Ora pro nobis_;" The casements glitter above; And the beautiful Virgin, whose robe is Woven of infinite love, Infinite love and sorrow, Prays for them there on high-- Who has most need of her prayers,--to-morrow Shall tell them!--they or I? Up in the hills together We loved, where the world was true; Our world of the whin and heather, Our skies of a nearer blue; A blue from which one borrows A faith that helps one die-- O Mother, thou Mother of Sorrows, None needs such more than I!