Her white face bowed in her black hair,
The maiden prays so still within
That you might hear a falling pin,—
Ay, hear her white unuttered prayer.
The moon has grown disconsolate,
Has turned her down her walk of stars:
Why, she is shutting up her bars,
As maidens shut a lover's gate.
The moon has grown disconsolate;
She will no longer watch and wait.
But two men wait; and two men will
Wait on till morning, mute and still:
Still wait and walk among the trees,
Quite careless if the moon may keep
Her walk along her starry steep
Above the Southern pearl-sown seas.
They know no moon, or set or rise
Of stars, or anything to light
The earth or skies, save her dark eyes,
This praying, waking, watching night.
They move among the tombs apart,
Their eyes turn ever to that door;
They know the worn walks there by heart —
They turn and walk them o'er and o'er.
They are not wide, these little walks
For dead folk by this crescent town.
They lie right close when they lie down,
As if they kept up quiet talks.