six o'clock
It was but a corner of a gable , a scrap of garden , that I could see beyond intervening roofs and trees -- but could I mistake them ? There was the very cedar-tree ; I knew its dark pyramid but too well ! There I had walked by her ; there , just behind that envious group of chestnuts , she was now . The light was fading ; it must be six o'clock ; she must be in her room now , dressing herself for dinner , looking so beautiful ! And as I gazed , and gazed , all the intervening objects became transparent and vanished before the intensity of my imagination . Were my poems in her room still ? Perhaps she had thrown them away -- the condemned rioter 's poems !