I Am Laughing By The Brook With Her, Splashed In Its Tumbling Stir; And Then It Is A Blankness Looms As If I Walked Not There, Nor She, But Found Me In Haggard Rooms, And Treading A Lonely Stair. With Radiant Cheeks And Rapid Eyes We Sit Where None Espies; Till A Harsh Change Comes Edging In As No Such Scene Were There, But Winter, And I Were Bent And Thin, And Cinder-Gray My Hair. We Dance In Heys Around The Hall, Weightless As Thistleball; And Then A Curtain Drops Between, As If I Danced Not There, But Wandered Through A Mounded Green To Find Her, I Knew Where. March 1913.