Yet naught her trust could move; the tryst she kept
Each night still, 'neath this tree, before she slept.
_And the moon hangs low in the elm._

So, circling years went by; and in her face
Slow melancholy wrought a tempered grace
Of early joy with sorrow's rich alloy--
Refined, rare, no doom should e'er destroy.
_And the moon hangs low in the elm._

Sometimes at twilight, when sweet Jessamine,
Slow-footed, weary-eyed, passed by to win
The elm, we smiled for pity of her, and mused
On love that so could live with love refused.
_And the moon hangs low in the elm._

Nor none could hope for her. But she had grown
Too high in love for hope, and bloomed alone,
Aloft in pure sincerity secure;
For fortune's failures, in her faith too sure.
_And the moon hangs low in the elm._

Oh, well for Walt, if he had known her soul!
Discouraged on disaster's changeful shoal
Wrecking, he rested; starved on selfish pride
Long years; nor would obey love's homeward tide.
_And the moon hangs low in the elm._

But, bitterly repenting of his sin,
Oh, bitterly he learned to look within