And none could hope for her. But she had grown
Too high in love, for hope. She bloomed alone,
Aloft in proud devotion; and secure
Against despair; so sweet her faith, so sure.
_And the moon hangs low in the elm._

Her wandering lover knew not well her soul.
Discouraged, on disaster's changing shoal
Stranding, he waited; 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,
Deeper at last he learned to look within
Sweet Jessamine's true heart--when the past, dead,
Mocked him with wasted years forever fled.
_And the moon hangs low in the elm._

Late, late, oh late, beneath the tree stood two;
In trembling joy, and wondering "Is it true?"--
Two that were each like some strange, misty wraith:
Yet each on each gazed with a living faith.
_And the moon hangs low in the elm._

Even to the tree-top sang the wedding-bell:
Even to the tree-top tolled the passing knell.
Beneath it Walt and Jessamine were wed,
Beneath it many a year has she lain dead.
_And the moon hangs low in the elm._