Ay, two men pace; and one is light Of step, but still his brow is dark His eyes are as a kindled spark That burns beneath the brow of night! And still they pace. The stars are red, The tombs are white as frosted snow; The silence is as if the dead Did pace in couples, to and fro. III. The azure curtain of God's house Draws back, and hangs star-pinned to space; I hear the low, large moon arouse, I see her lift her languid face. I see her shoulder up the east, Low-necked, and large as womanhood,-- Low-necked, as for some ample feast Of gods, within yon orange-wood. She spreads white palms, she whispers peace,-- Sweet peace on earth for evermore; Sweet peace for two beneath the trees, Sweet peace for one within the door. The bent stream, like a scimitar Flashed in the sun, sweeps on and on, Till sheathed like some great sword new-drawn In seas beneath the Carib's star. The high moon climbs the sapphire hill, The lone sweet lady prays within; The crickets keep a clang and din-- They are so loud, earth is so still! And two men glare in silence there! The bitter, jealous hate of each Has grown too deep for deed or speech-- The lone, sweet lady keeps her prayer. The vast moon high through heaven's field In circling chariot is rolled; The golden stars are spun and reeled, And woven into cloth of gold. The white magnolia fills the night With perfume, as the proud moon fills The glad earth with her ample light From out her awful sapphire hills. White orange blossoms fill the boughs Above, about the old church door,-- They wait the bride, the bridal vows,-- They never hung so fair before. The two men glare as dark as sin! And yet all seems so fair, so white, You would not reckon it was night,-- The while the lady prays within. IV. She prays so very long and late,-- The two men, weary, waiting there,-- The great magnolia at the gate Bends drowsily above her prayer. The cypress in his cloak of moss, That watches on in silent gloom, Has leaned and shaped a shadow-cross Above the nameless, lowly tomb. What can she pray for? What her sin? What folly of a maid so fair? What shadows bind the wondrous hair Of one who prays so long within? The palm-trees guard in regiment, Stand right and left without the gate; The myrtle-moss trees wait and wait; The tall magnolia leans intent. The cypress trees, on gnarled old knees, Far out the dank and marshy deep Where slimy monsters groan and creep, Kneel with her in their marshy seas. What can her sin be? Who shall know? The night flies by,--a bird on wing; The men no longer to and fro Stride up and down, or anything. For one so weary and so old Has hardly strength to stride or stir; He can but hold his bags of gold,-- But hug his gold and wait for her.