Through the whole of an autumn afternoon,
we lay at the foot of a graven stone
in whose sunken shadow we made our bed ~~
a spray of nightshade encircled her head
and the play of dappled light on her cheek
and along her throat made it hard to speak ~~
the fragrant grass was long and unmown,
her blouse undone and her hair windblown,
and none but the cold indifferent dead
bore witness to all that was done or said.

And though half the village had damned outright
our renegade love, we savored our plight
and as outlaw lovers we vowed to stay
till dusk had obliterated the day ~~
the long hours passed and the last light waned,
yet still in delirium we remained,
lost in caresses increasingly bold,
clinging to all we could never hold
until, lying in ruins, at length, we slept,
as high overhead the cold stars crept.

And when the last star had died with the dawn,
I awoke to find her utterly gone ~~
by tracks of her skirt in the silver dew,
by a remnant of ribbon left as clue,
I traced her to where an old willow bent,
loosening languid leaves in the current
of Spoon River . . , and there where it wended
deep into shadow her story ended,
a glimmer of silver arms in the stream
and halos of floating hair like a dream.