HER SONG

I sang that song on Sunday,

To witch an idle while,

I sang that song on Monday,

As fittest to beguile;

I sang it as the year outwore,

And the new slid in;

I thought not what might shape before

Another would begin.

I sang that song in summer,

All unforeknowingly,

To him as a new-comer

From regions strange to me:

I sang it when in afteryears

The shades stretched out,

And paths were faint; and flocking fears

Brought cup-eyed care and doubt.

Sings he that song on Sundays

In some dim land afar,

On Saturdays, or Mondays,

As when the evening star

Glimpsed in upon his bending face

And my hanging hair,

And time untouched me with a trace

Of soul-smart or despair?