She sat as of yore, in her olden place,
    Serene as death, in her silver chair. 
    A white rose gleamed in her whiter hair,
  And the tint of a blush was on her face. 
    At sight of the youth she sadly bowed
    And hid her face ’neath a gracious cloud. 
    She faltered faint on the night’s dim marge,
    But “How,” spoke the youth, “have you kept your charge?”

  The moon was sad at a trust ill-kept;
    The blush went out in her blanching cheek,
    And her voice was timid and low and weak,
  As she made her plea and sighed and wept. 
    “Oh, another prayed and another plead,
    And I could n’t resist,” she answering said;
    “But love still grows in the hearts of men: 
    Go forth, dear youth, and love again.”

  But he turned him away from her proffered grace. 
    “Thou art false, O moon, as the hearts of men,
    I will not, will not love again.” 
  And he turned sheer ’round with a soul-sick face
    To the sea, and cried:  “Sea, curse the moon,
    Who makes her vows and forgets so soon.” 
    And the awful sea with anger stirred,
    And his breast heaved hard as he lay and heard.

  And ever the moon wept down in rain,
    And ever her sighs rose high in wind;
    But the earth and sea were deaf and blind,
  And she wept and sighed her griefs in vain. 
    And ever at night, when the storm is fierce,
    The cries of a wraith through the thunder pierce;
    And the waves strain their awful hands on high
    To tear the false moon from the sky.

CONSCIENCE AND REMORSE

  “Good-bye,” I said to my conscience—­
    “Good-bye for aye and aye,”
  And I put her hands off harshly,
    And turned my face away;
  And conscience smitten sorely
    Returned not from that day.

  But a time came when my spirit
    Grew weary of its pace;
  And I cried:  “Come back, my conscience;
    I long to see thy face.” 
  But conscience cried:  “I cannot;
    Remorse sits in my place.”

IONE

I

  Ah, yes, ’t is sweet still to remember,
    Though ’twere less painful to forget;
  For while my heart glows like an ember,
    Mine eyes with sorrow’s drops are wet,
    And, oh, my heart is aching yet. 
  It is a law of mortal pain
    That old wounds, long accounted well,
    Beneath the memory’s potent spell,
  Will wake to life and bleed again.

  So ’t is with me; it might be better
    If I should turn no look behind,—­
  If I could curb my heart, and fetter
    From reminiscent gaze my mind,
    Or let my soul go blind—­go blind! 
  But would I do it if I could? 
    Nay! ease at such a price were spurned;
    For, since my love was once returned,
  All that I suffer seemeth good.