Down the long river of life how, cast adrift,
  She urged him on, still on, to sink or swim;
And all at once, as if a veil did lift,
  In the dead time of the night, and bare to him
The want in his deep soul, he looked, was dumb,
And knew himself, and knew his time was come.

In the dead time of the night his soul did sound
  The dark sea of a trouble unforeseen,
For that one sweet that to his life was bound
  Had turned into a want—­a misery keen: 
Was born, was grown, and wounded sorely cried
All ’twixt the midnight and the morning tide.

He was a brave man, and he took this thing
  And cast it from him with a man’s strong hand;
And that next morn, with no sweet altering
  Of mien, beside the maid he took his stand,
And copied his past self till ebbing day
Paled its deep western blush, and died away.

And then he told her that he must depart
  Upon the morrow, with the earliest light;
And it displeased and pained her at the heart,
  And she went out to hide her from his sight
Aneath the cedar trees, where dusk was deep,
And be apart from him awhile to weep

And to lament, till, suddenly aware
  Of steps, she started up as fain to flee,
And met him in the moonlight pacing there,
  Who questioned with her why her tears might be,
Till she did answer him, all red for shame,
“Kind sir, I weep—­the wanting of a name.”

“A name!” quoth he, and sighed.  “I never knew
  Thy father’s name; but many a stalwart youth
Would give thee his, dear child, and his love too,
  And count himself a happy man forsooth. 
Is there none here who thy kind thought hath won?”
But she did falter, and made answer, “None.”

Then, as in father-like and kindly mood,
  He said, “Dear daughter, it would please me well
To see thee wed; for know it is not good
  That a fair woman thus alone should dwell.” 
She said, “I am content it should be so,
If when you journey I may with you go.”

This when he heard, he thought, right sick at heart,
  Must I withstand myself, and also thee? 
Thou, also thou! must nobly do thy part;
  That honor leads thee on which holds back me. 
No, thou sweet woman; by love’s great increase,
I will reject thee for thy truer peace.

Then said he, “Lady!—­look upon my face;
  Consider well this scar upon my brow;
I have had all misfortune but disgrace;
  I do not look for marriage blessings now. 
Be not thy gratitude deceived.  I know
Thou think’st it is thy duty—­I will go!

“I read thy meaning, and I go from hence,
  Skilled in the reason; though my heart be rude,
I will not wrong thy gentle innocence,
  Nor take advantage of thy gratitude. 
But think, while yet the light these eyes shall bless,
The more for thee—­of woman’s nobleness.”

Faultless and fair, all in the moony light,
  As one ashamed, she looked upon the ground,
And her white raiment glistened in his sight. 
  And, hark! the vesper chimes began to sound,
Then lower yet she drooped her young, pure cheek,
And still was she ashamed, and could not speak.