This is the tale they tell, Of an Hallowe'en; This is the thing that befell Me and the village Belle, Beautiful Aimee Dean.

2.

Did I love her?--G.o.d and she, They know and I!

And love was the life of me-- Whatever else may be, Would G.o.d that I could die!

3.

That All-Saints' eve was dim; The frost lay white Under strange stars and a slim Moon in the graveyard grim, An Autumn ghost of light.

4.

They told her: "Go alone, With never a word, To the burial plot's unknown Grave with the grayest stone, When the clock on twelve is heard;

5.

"Three times around it pa.s.s, With never a sound; Each time a wisp of gra.s.s And myrtle pluck, and pa.s.s Out of the ghostly ground;

6.

"And the bridegroom that's to be At smiling wait, With a face like mist to see, With graceful gallantry Will bow you to the gate."

7.

She laughed at this, and so Bespoke us how To the burial place she'd go:-- And I was glad to know, For I'd be there to bow.

8.

An acre from the farm The homestead graves Lay walled from sun and storm; Old cedars of priestly form Around like sentinel slaves.

9.

I loved, but never could say Such words to her, And waited from day to day, Nursing the hope that lay Under the doubts that were.--

10.

She pa.s.sed 'neath the iron arch Of the legended ground, And the moon like a twisted torch Burned over one lonesome larch; She pa.s.sed with never a sound.

11.

Three times had the circle traced, Three times had bent To the grave that the myrtle graced; Three times, then softly faced Homeward, and slowly went.

12.

Had the moonlight changed me so?

Or fear undone Her stepping strange and slow?

Did she see and did not know?

Or loved she another one?

13.

Who knows?--She turned to flee With a face so white That it haunts and will haunt me; The wind blew gustily, The graveyard gate clanged tight.

14.

Did she think it me or--what, Clutching her dress?

Her face so pinched that not A star in a stormy spot Shows half as much distress.

15.

Did I speak? did she answer aught?

O G.o.d! had I said "Aimee, 't is I!" but naught!-- And the mist and the moon distraught Stared with me on her--dead....

16.

This is the tale they tell Of the Hallowe'en; This is the thing that befell Me and the village Belle, Beautiful Aimee Dean.

MATER DOLOROSA.

The nuns sing, "_ora pro n.o.bis_,"

The lancets glitter above; And the beautiful Virgin whose robe is Woven of infinite love, Infinite love and sorrow, Prays for them there on high;-- Who has most need of her prayers,--to-morrow Shall tell them,--they or I?

Up in the hills together We loved, where the world seemed true; Our world of the whin and heather, Our skies of a nearer blue, A blue from which one borrows A faith that helps one die-- O Mother, sweet Mother of Sorrows, None needs such more than I!

We lived, we loved unwedded-- Love's sin and its shame that slays!-- No ill of the year we dreaded, No day of its coming days; Its coming days, their many Trials by morn and night, And I know no land, not any, Where love's lilies grow so white!

Was he false to me, my Mother!

Or I to him, my G.o.d!-- Who gave thee right, O brother!

To take G.o.d's right and rod!