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And pity and praise the chapel sweet,

And care about the fresco’s loss,

And wish for our souls a like retreat,

And wonder at the moss.

We stoop and look in through the grate,

See the little porch and rustic door,

Read duly the dead builder’s date;

Then cross the bridge that we crossed before,

Take the path again—but wait!

Oh moment, one and infinite!

The water slips o’er stock and stone;

The West is tender, hardly bright:

How grey at once is the evening grown—

One star, its chrysolite!

We two stood there with never a third,

But each by each, as each knew well:

The sights we saw and the sounds we heard,

The lights and the shades made up a spell

Till the trouble grew and stirred.

Oh, the little more, and how much it is!

And the little less, and what worlds away!

How a sound shall quicken content to bliss,

Or a breath suspend the blood’s best play,

And life be a proof of this!...

A moment after, and hands unseen

Were hanging the night around us fast;

But we knew that a bar was broken between