A dog barked; and down ways, that gleamed, Through dew and clover faint the noise Of cow-bells moved. And then a voice, That sang a-milking, so it seemed, Made glad my heart as some glad boy's.
And then the lane; and full in view A farmhouse with a rose-grown gate, And honeysuckle paths, await For night's white moon and love and you-- These are the things that made me late.
Oh, dim and wan came in the dawn, And gloomy closed the day; The killdee whistled among the weeds, The heron flapped in the river reeds, And the snipe piped far away.
At dawn she stood--her dark gray hood Flung back--in the ferry-boat; Sad were the eyes that watched him ride, Her raider love, from the riverside, His kiss on her mouth and throat.
Like some wild spell the twilight fell, And black the tempest came; The heavens seemed filled with the warring dead, Whose batteries opened overhead With thunder and with flame.
At night again in the wind and rain, She toiled at the ferry oar; For she heard a voice in the night and storm, And it seemed that her lover's shadowy form Beckoned her to the shore.
And swift to save she braved the wave, And reached the shore and found His riderless horse, with head hung low, A blur of blood on the saddle-bow, And the empty night around.
Her violin!--Again begin The dream-notes of her violin; And dim and fair, with gold-brown hair, I seem to see her standing there, Soft-eyed and sweetly slender: The room again, with strain on strain, Vibrates to LOVE's melodious pain, As, sloping slow, is poised her bow, While round her form the golden glow Of sunset spills its splendour.
Her violin!--now deep, now thin, Again I hear her violin; And, dream by dream, again I seem To see the love-light's tender gleam Beneath her eyes' long lashes: While to my heart she seems a part Of her pure song's inspirèd art; And, as she plays, the rosy grays Of twilight halo hair and face, While sunset burns to ashes.
O violin!--Cease, cease within My soul, O haunting violin! In vain, in vain, you bring again Back from the past the blissful pain Of all the love then spoken; When on my breast, at happy rest, A sunny while her head was pressed-- Peace, peace to these wild memories! For, like my heart naught remedies, Her violin lies broken.