The spray sprang up across the face of the moon,
And all its light loomed green
As a witch-flame's weirdsome sheen
At the minute of an incantation scene;
And it greened our gaze-that night at demilune.

Roaring high and roaring low was the sea
Behind the headland shores;
It symboled the slamming of doors,
Or a regiment hurrying over hollow floors. . .
And there we two stood, hands clasped: I and she!