For, as they walked, he hardly looked at her,
And sometimes when she spoke, he did not answer.
They crossed the brook, he did not say,—"Be heedful,
Wet not thy little feet."
He did not bend the branches of the hazel,
Lest they should bar her way.
I watched, and told myself, "This maiden truly
Is one he does not love."
"My sister of the cross, why look'st thou pale?"
I could not see her face, I longed to see it,
I crept through tangled ways, I bent the bushes,
The sharp thorns tore my hands. I saw her face!
I saw the face that he whom I love, loves not,
I saw myself!
"My sister of the crass, why look'st thou pale?"
I saw myself! It was my face I saw!
And I am she that he whom I love loves not.
My yellow hair, my chain, my slender girdle!
I saw myself!
This was a dream, a dream that came at midnight,
When dreams are true!"
"My sister of the cross, why look'st thou pale?"
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