In stinging hail of sharp-edged ice,
As freezing as the polar north,
Yet maddening. O, the poor mean vice
We women have been taught to call
By virtue's name! the holy scorn
We feel for lovers left love-lorn
By our own coldness, or by the wall
Of other love 'twixt them and us!

The tempest past, I paused. He stood
Silent,--and yet "Ungenerous!"
Was hurled back, plainer than ere could
His lips have said it, by his eyes
Fire-flashing, and his pale, set face,
Beautiful, and unmarred by trace
Of aught save pain and pained surprise.
--I quailed at last before that gaze,
And even faintly owned my wrong:
I said I "spoke in such amaze
I could not choose words that belong
To such occasions." Here he smiled,
To cover one low, quick-drawn sigh:
"June eves disturb us differently,"
He said, at length; "and I, beguiled
By something in the air, did do
My Lady Maud unmeant offence;
And, what is stranger far, she too,
Under the baleful influence
of this fair heaven"--he raised his eyes,
And gestured proudly toward the stars--
"Has done me wrong. Wrong, lady, mars
God's purpose, written on these skies,
Painted and uttered in this scene:
Acknowledged in each secret heart;
We both are wrong, you say; 'twould mean
That we too should be wide apart--
And so, adieu!"--with this he went.

I sat down whitening in the moon,
With heat as of a desert noon,
Sending its fever vehement
Across my brow, and through my frame--
The fever of a wild regret--
A vain regret without a name,
In which both love and loathing met.

Was this the same enchanted air
I breathed one little hour ago?
Did all these purple roses blow
But yestermorn, so sweet, so fair?
Was it _this_ eve that some one said
"Come out into the garden, Maud?"
And while the sleepy birds o'erhead
Chirped out to know who walked abroad,
Did _we_ admire the plumey flowers
On the wide-branched catalpa trees,
And locusts, scenting all the breeze;
And call the balm-trees our bird-towers?
Did _we_ recall the "black bat Night,"
That flew before young Maud walked forth--
And say this Night's wings were too bright
For bats'--being feathered, from its birth,
Like butterflies' with powdered gold:
Still talking on, from gay t