Yes, it is here; — this is the street,
And this the little house of hers.
Again my pulses throb and beat,
The sharp and curious longing stirs.
Once more the ancient fevers burn,
And rack me with forgotten pain.
What chance, I wonder, made me turn
My footsteps to her door again?

Nothing is changed — the hedge, the broom,
The quaint old flowers, the powdery smell;
And these, the windows of her room,
The little room we knew so well.
How many times we opened wide
That darkened lattice to the moon,
And leaned together, side by side,
And drew in all the generous June!

How still, on tiptoe, we would steal
Breathlessly to that secret room,
Where gloriously she would reveal
Herself in starlight, half in gloom.
Or fall asleep and hear the rain
Beat lightly, like an eager throng
Of fairies tapping on the pane,
To haunt us with a silver song ...

And then — our love became a task,
The rosy glamour turned to gray;
Faith was a masquerader's mask,
And Life a bitter holiday.
It was the end, the acrid morn;
Love could not hold a loveless mate.
I laughed and thought of her with scorn;
She smiled at me with almost hate.

For we had only played at love,
Untouched by passion, free of fears;
We never knew that pain could move
Kindly beneath a weight of tears.
Surfeit, not grief, came to destroy;
And only at the end we knew
That, in the very hour of joy,
Love must have tears and suffering too. . .

And this was taught us long ago —
Yet, as I watch the moonlight play
Along the eaves, it seems as though
I had been here but yesterday.
Nothing is changed; the old lamps burn
Where once we sat and watched the rain. . .
What chance, I wonder, made me turn
My footsteps to her door again?