The Village Street

In these rapid, restless shadows,     Once I walked at eventide,     When a gentle, silent maiden,     Walked in beauty at my side     She alone there walked beside me     All in beauty, like a bride.     Pallidly the moon was shining     On the dewy meadows nigh;     On the silvery, silent rivers,     On the mountains far and high     On the oceans star-lit waters,     Where the winds a-weary die.     Slowly, silently we wandered     From the open cottage door,     Underneath the elms long branches     To the pavement bending oer;     Underneath the mossy willow     And the dying sycamore.     With the myriad stars in beauty     All bedight, the heavens were seen,     Radiant hopes were bright around me,     Like the light of stars serene;     Like the mellow midnight splendor     Of the Nights irradiate queen.     Audibly the elm-leaves whispered     Peaceful, pleasant melodies,     Like the distant murmured music     Of unquiet, lovely seas:     While the winds were hushed in slumber     In the fragrant flowers and trees.     Wondrous and unwonted beauty     Still adorning all did seem,     While I told my love in fables     Neath the willows by the stream;     Would the heart have kept unspoken     Love that was its rarest dream!     Instantly away we wandered     In the shadowy twilight tide,     She, the silent, scornful maiden,     Walking calmly at my side,     With a step serene and stately,     All in beauty, all in pride.     Vacantly I walked beside her.     On the earth mine eyes were cast;     Swift and keen there came unto me     Bitter memories of the past     On me, like the rain in Autumn     On the dead leaves, cold and fast.     Underneath the elms we parted,     By the lowly cottage door;     One brief word alone was uttered     Never on our lips before;     And away I walked forlornly,     Broken-hearted evermore.     Slowly, silently I loitered,     Homeward, in the night, alone;     Sudden anguish bound my spirit,     That my youth had never known;     Wild unrest, like that which cometh     When the Nights first dream hath flown.     Now, to me the elm-leaves whisper     Mad, discordant melodies,     And keen melodies like shadows     Haunt the moaning willow trees,     And the sycamores with laughter     Mock me in the nightly breeze.     Sad and pale the Autumn moonlight     Through the sighing foliage streams;     And each morning, midnight shadow,     Shadow of my sorrow seems;     Strive, O heart, forget thine idol!     And, O soul, forget thy dreams!