As often as we thought of her, We thought of a gray life That made a quaint economist Of a wolf-haunted wife； We made the best of all she bore That was not ours to bear, And honored her for wearing things That were not things to wear.

    There was a distance in her look That made us look again； And if she smiled, we might believe That we had looked in vain. Rarely she came inside our doors, And had not long to stay； And when she left, it seemed somehow That she was far away.

    At last, when we had all forgot That all is here to change, A shadow on the commonplace Was for a moment strange. Yet there was nothing for surprise, Nor much that need be told： Love, with his gift of pain, had given More than one heart could hold. The MillThe miller's wife had waited long, The tea was cold, the fire was dead； And there might yet be nothing wrong In how he went and what he said： "There are no millers any more," Was all that she had heard him say； And he had lingered at the door So long that it seemed yesterday.

    Sick with a fear that had no form She knew that she was there at last； And in the mill there was a warm And mealy fragrance of the past. What else there was would only seem To say again what he had meant； And what was hanging from a beam Would not have heeded where she went.

    And if she thought it followed her, She may have reasoned in the dark That one way of the few there were Would hide her and would leave no mark： Black water, smooth above the weir Like starry velvet in the night, Though ruffled once, would soon appear The same as ever to the sight. The Dark Hills

    Dark hills at evening in the west, Where sunset hovers like a sound Of golden horns that sang to rest Old bones of warriors under ground, Far now from all the bannered ways Where flash the legions of the sun, You fade —— as if the last of days Were fading, and all wars were done.