“Thus hushing my sad heart the day drew nigh
Of parting, and the promised sign was given. 
The night was dismal darkness—­not one star
Twinkled in heaven; the sad, low-moaning wind
Played like a mournful harp among the pines. 
I groped and listened through the darkling grove,
Peering with eager eyes among the trees,
And calling as I peered with anxious voice
One darling name.  No answer but the moan
Of the wind-shaken pines.  I sat me down
Under the dusky shadows waiting for her,
And lost myself in gloomy reverie. 
Dim in the darksome shadows of the night,
While thus I dreamed, my darling came and crept
Beneath the boughs as softly as a hare,
And whispered ’Paul’—­and I was at her side. 
We sat upon a mound moss-carpeted—­
No eyes but God’s upon us, and no voice
Spake to us save the moaning of the pines. 
Few were the words we spoke; her silent tears,
Our clasping, trembling, lingering embrace,
Were more than words.  Into one solemn hour,
Were pressed the fears and hopes of coming years. 
Two tender hearts that only dared to hope
There swelled and throbbed to the electric touch
Of love as holy as the love of Christ. 
She gave her picture and I gave a ring—­
My mother’s—­almost with her latest breath
She gave it me and breathed my darling’s name. 
I girt her finger, and she kissed the ring
In solemn pledge, and said: 

“’I bring a gift—­
The priceless gift of God unto his own: 
O may it prove a precious gift to you,
As it has proved a precious gift to me;
And promise me to read it day by day—­
Beginning on the morrow—­every day
A chapter—­and I too will read the same.’

“I took the gift—­a precious gift indeed—­
And you may see how I have treasured it. 
Here, Captain, put your hand upon my breast—­
An inner pocket—­you will find it there.”

I opened the bloody blouse and thence drew forth
The Book of Christ all stained with Christian blood. 
He laid his hand upon the holy book,
And closed his eyes as if in silent prayer. 
I held his weary head and bade him rest. 
He lay a moment silent and resumed: 
“Let me go on if you would hear the tale;
I soon shall sleep the sleep that wakes no more. 
O there were promises and vows as solemn
As Christ’s own promises; but as we sat
The pattering rain-drops fell among the pines,
And in the branches the foreboding owl
With dismal hooting hailed the coming storm. 
So in that dreary hour and desolate
We parted in the silence of our tears.