I smiled with skeptic mocking where they told me you were dead, br You of the airy laughter and lightly twinkling feet; br "They tell a dream that haunted a chill gray dawn," I said, br "Death could not touch or claim a thing so vivid and so sweet!" br br I looked upon you coffined amid your virgin flowers, br But even that white silence could bring me no belief: br "She lies in maiden sleep," I said. "and in the youngling hours br Her sealed dark eyes will open to scorn our foolish grief." br br But when I went at moonrise to our ancient trysting place. . . . . br And, oh, the wind was keening in the fir-boughs overhead! . . . .