I thought, my Heart, that you had healed
Of those sore smartings of the past,
And that the summers had oversealed
   All mark of them at last.
But closely scanning in the night
I saw them standing crimson-bright
        Just as she made them:
        Nothing could fade them;
        Yea, I can swear
        That there they were -
        They still were there!

Then the Vision of her who cut them came,
And looking over my shoulder said,
"I am sure you deal me all the blame
   For those sharp smarts and red;
But meet me, dearest, to-morrow night,
In the churchyard at the moon's half-height,
        And so strange a kiss
        Shall be mine, I wis,
        That you'll cease to know
        If the wounds you show
        Be there or no!"