Page:Poems Proctor.djvu/139

THE TRYST OF SOULS.

Low hung the moon, the wind was still,
As slow I climbed the midnight hill,
And passed the ruined garden o'er,
And gained the barred and silent door;
Sad-welcomed by the lingering rose
That, startled, shed its waning snows.

The bolt flew back with sudden clang;
I entered; wall and rafter rang;
Down dropped the moon, and, clear and high,
September's wind went wailing by;—
"Alas!" I sighed, "the love and glow
That lit this mansion, long ago!"

And groping up the threshold stair,
And past the chambers cold and bare,
I sought the room where glad, of yore,
We sat the blazing fire before,
And heard the tales a father told,
Till glow was gone and evening old.

Where were those rosy children three?
The boy beneath the moaning sea;
Blithe Margaret, down where violets hide,
Slept, tranquil, by that father's side;