AT RUSHY-POND

On the frigid face of the heath-hemmed pond 

There shaped the half-grown moon: 

Winged whiffs from the north with a husky croon 

Blew over and beyond. 

And the wind flapped the moon in its float on the pool, 

And stretched it to oval form; 

Then corkscrewed it like a wriggling worm; 

Then wanned it weariful. 

And I cared not for conning the sky above 

Where hung the substant thing, 

For my thought was earthward sojourning 

On the scene I had vision of. 

Since there it was once, in a secret year, 

I had called a woman to me 

From across this water, ardently - 

And practised to keep her near; 

Till the last weak love-words had been said, 

And ended was her time, 

And blurred the bloomage of her prime, 

And white the earlier red. 

And the troubled orb in the pond's sad shine 

Was her very wraith, as scanned 

When she withdrew thence, mirrored, and 

Her days dropped out of mine.

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