XXXI.

Against the broad yew-trunk she leant,
The black bough's vault of shade adorning,—
A fixed, fair, living monument,
Amid the light of morning:

XXXII.

Till silently stood up the man,
And from the grave he stepped aside,
And some faint speech in vain began
When there the maid he spied.

XXXIII.

He too was young, and sad, and pale,
Two mourning youthful hearts were they;
They had the same familiar tale,
Man's tale of every day.

XXXIV.

And each upon the other gazed,
With eyes from sorrow cold and slow;
They knew not why, but felt amazed
That each was not alone in woe.

XXXV.

Few moments they together staid,
And few the broken words they spake,
And parted so, the man and maid,
Their separate paths alone to take.