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THE TRYST. IMPELLED by memory in a wayward mood, Reluctant, yearning, with a faithless mind, I sought once more a long neglected spot, A wooded upland bordered by the sea, Whose tides were swirling up the reedy sands, Or floating noiseless in the yellow marsh. My way was wild. The winds, awaking, smote My face, but as I passed a ruined wall Brambles and vines and waving blossoms dashed A frolic-welcome, like a summer rain. Shouldering the hills against the murky east Stood stalwart oaks, and in the mossy sod Below the trembling birches whispered me, " Not here ! " I reached the silence-loving pines, 138
