Classic Poem

The woodbine bower—a summer night—
By the window our seat as it used to be—
The moon arose with her balmy light—
But like ghosts from the grave were I and she.

Since we last sat thus—the scene the same—
Twelve years had passed: ah, time had sped!
The tender glow, the consuming flame,
Had sunk to ashes cold and dead.

The chattering woman raked about,
While I sat with hardly a word to say,
In those ashes of love so long gone out,
But revived no spark—they were cold and grey.

She told me a long and wearisome tale—
How her evil thoughts she had quelled by grace,
How nearly her virtue had yielded, frail—
I sat and stared with a stupid face.

As I galloped home, in the moonlight clear
The trees like so many ghosts flew by.
I heard strange voices calling drear—
But swiftly we rode, the dead and I.