Like music in a reed, the light
Was shut up in the dim, wild night;
And 'twixt the black boughs fell the snowing—
The black March boughs together blowing,
Till hill and valley all were white.

The windows of the old house glowed
With the dry hickory, burning brightly,
As in the old house burned it nightly;
So little cared they that it snowed—
The two my rhyme is of. If tears
Or shadows filled the eyes, else lit
With sunshine it were best unwrit,
And all about sweet hopes and fears
Were best unsaid, too. Tares will grow
In spite of the most careful sowing;
We find them in the time of mowing,
Instead of flowers, we all do know.

So it were better that I write
No whit about the lady's sighing;
'T were better said she had been tying,
To make it pretty for the night,
Buds, white and scarlet, in her hair;—
And that the ribbon she should wear
Had sadly vexed her—not a hue.
Purple nor carmine that would do;
Or that the cowslips of the May,
Her little hand had freely given—
Nay, more, the sweetest star of heaven—
To gain a rose the more that day
For her sad cheek: so foolish runs
In all of us the blood of youth
Ere wintry frosts or summer suns
Bleach fancy's fabrics, and the truth
Of sober senses turns aside
The images once deified.

It was a time of parting dread—
For middle night the cock was crowing,
The black March boughs together blowing,
The lady mourning to be dead;
And idly pulling down the flowers,
Tied prettily about her hair—
Alas! she had but little care
For any bliss of future hours!
That parting made the world all dim
To her, which ever way she saw;
I know not what it was to him—
Haply but as the gusty flaw
That went before the buds—if so,
Hers was a doubly piteous woe!
And years are gone, or fast or slow,
And many a love has had its making
Since these two parted, at the breaking
Of daylight, whiter than the snow.

Again 't is March: the lady's brows
Are circled with another light
Than that of burning hickory boughs,
Which lit the house that parting night.
And they have met: the eyes so sweet
In the old time again she sees—
Hears the same voice—and yet for these
Her heart has not an added beat.
If there be tremblings now, or sighs,
They are not hers; she feels no sorrow
That he will be away to-morrow,
Nor joy that bridal mornings rise
Out of his smiling—she is free!
Oh, give her pity, give her tears!
By one great wave of passion's sea,
Drifted alike from hopes and fears.