The Tryst

Faint now the colours in the West;
And, stilled with lapse of day,
All life within it laid to rest,
The wintry wood grows grey.

Frost enlines the withered flower,
Its hips and haws now blackening are,
The slender naked tree-tops cower
Beneath the evening-star.

Pace we then softly, you and I,
Nor stir one England-wintering bird —
Start not! — 'twas but some wild thing's cry,
No wailing ghost you heard.

Yet ghosts there are, remote and chill,
Waiting the moon's phantasmal fire,
But not for us to heed, until
We too doff Earth's attire.

Oh, far from home we both shall be,
When we, with them, shall coldly brood
On lovers twain, like you and me,
Trespassing in this wood.
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