Think not, because I wonder where you fled,
That I would lift a pin to see you there; 
You may, for me, be prowling anywhere, 
So long as you show not your little head: 
No dark and evil story of the dead
Would leave you less pernicious or less fair?
Not even Lilith, with her famous hair; 
And Lilith was the devil, I have read. 

I cannot hate you, for I loved you then. 
The woods were golden then. There was a road
Through beeches; and I said their smooth feet showed
Like yours. Truth must have heard me from afar, 
For I shall never have to learn again 
That yours are cloven as no beech?s are.