'TIS an old dial, dark with many a stain; In summer crowned with drifting orchard bloom,

Tricked in the autumn with the yellow rain,

And white in winter like a marble tomb;

And round about its gray, time-eaten brow

Lean letters speak-a worn and shattered row:

I AM A SHADE: A SHADOW TOO ARTE

THOU:

I MARKE THE TIME: SAYE, GOSSIP, DOST THOU SOE?

Here would the ringdoves linger, head to head;

And here the snail a silver course would run,

And round her train the tiger-lilies swayed, Like courtiers bowing till the queen be

gone.

She leaned upon the slab a little while, Then drew a jewelled pencil from her

zone,

Scribbled a something with a frolic smile, Folded, inscribed, and niched it in the

stone.

The shade slipped on, no swifter than the snail;

There came a second lady to the place, Dove-eyed, dove-robed, and something wan and pale

An inner beauty shining from her face.

She, as if listless with a lonely love, Straying among the alleys with a book,

spread

His gold-green glory, shutting out the

sun.

The tardy shade moved forward to the noon;

Betwixt the paths a dainty Beauty stept, That swung a flower, and, smiling, hummed a tune,

Before whose feet a barking spaniel leapt.

O'er her blue dress an endless blossom strayed;

About her tendril curls the sunlight shone;

dove,

And spied the tiny letter in the nook.

Then, like to one who confirmation found Of some dread secret half-accounted true,

Who knew what hands and hearts the letter bound,

And argued loving commerce 'twixt the two,

She bent her fair young forehead on the stone;

The dark shade gloomed an instant on her head;