The time is come to speak, I think: For on the square I met My beauteous widow, fresh and pink, Her black gown touched at every brink With tender violet; And at her throat the white crêpe lisse Spoke, in a fluffy bow, Of woe that should perhaps ne’er cease— (Peace to thy shade, Golightly, peace!) Yet mitigated woe. In her soft eye, that used to scan The ground, nor seem to see, The hazel legend sweetly ran, “I could not wholly hate a man For quite adoring me.” And when she drew her ’kerchief fine, A hint of heliotrope Its snow edged with an inky line Exhaled,—from which scent you divine Through old regrets new hope. And then her step, so soft and slow, She scarcely seemed to lift From off the sward her widowed toe,— One year, one little year ago!— So soft yet, yet so swift; Then, too, her blush, her side glance coy, Tell me in easy Greek (I wonder could her little boy Prove source of serious annoy?) The time has come to speak.