Her eyes were resting on his face,
  As shyly glad, by stealth to glean
Impressions of his manly grace
        And guarded mien;

The mouth with steady sweetness set,
  And eyes conveying unaware
The distant hint of some regret
        That harbored there.

She gazed, and in the tender flush
  That made her face like roses blown,
And in the radiance and the hush,
        Her thought was shown.

It was a happy thing to sit
  So near, nor mar his reverie;
She looked not for a part in it,
        So meek was she.

But it was solace for her eyes,
  And for her heart, that yearned to him,
To watch apart in loving wise
        Those musings dim.

Lost—­lost, and gone!  The Pelham woods
  Were full of doves that cooed at ease;
The orchis filled her purple hoods
        For dainty bees.

He heard not; all the delicate air
  Was fresh with falling water-spray: 
It mattered not—­he was not there,
        But far away.

Till with the hazel in his hand,
  Still drowned in thought it thus befell;
He drew a letter on the sand—­
        The letter L.

And looking on it, straight there wrought
  A ruddy flush about his brow;
His letter woke him:  absent thought
        Rushed homeward now.

And half-abashed, his hasty touch
  Effaced it with a tell-tale care,
As if his action had been much,
        And not his air.

And she? she watched his open palm
  Smooth out the letter from the sand,
And rose, with aspect almost calm,
        And filled her hand

With cherry-bloom, and moved away
  To gather wild forget-me-not,
And let her errant footsteps stray
        To one sweet spot,

As if she coveted the fair
  White lining of the silver-weed,
And cuckoo-pint that shaded there
        Empurpled seed.

She had not feared, as I divine,
  Because she had not hoped.  Alas! 
The sorrow of it! for that sign
        Came but to pass;

And yet it robbed her of the right
  To give, who looked not to receive,
And made her blush in love’s despite
        That she should grieve.

A shape in white, she turned to gaze;
  Her eyes were shaded with her hand,
And half-way up the winding ways
       We saw her stand.

Green hollows of the fringed cliff,
  Red rocks that under waters show,
Blue reaches, and a sailing skiff,
        Were spread below.

She stood to gaze, perhaps to sigh,
  Perhaps to think; but who can tell
How heavy on her heart must lie
        The letter L!

* * * * *

She came anon with quiet grace;
  And “What,” she murmured, “silent yet!”
He answered, “’Tis a haunted place,
        And spell-beset.

“O speak to us, and break the spell!”
  “The spell is broken,” she replied. 
“I crossed the running brook, it fell,
        It could not bide.