Haunted her inner spirit day and night, And often in his kiss the memory came Of Michael's face above her, passionate, white, His lips at her lips murmuring her name, Then she would suffer sleepless, sick with shame, And struggle with her weakness. She had vowed To give herself to Lion; she was true and proud.
He should not have a woman sick with ghosts, But one firm-minded to be his; so time Passed one by one the summer's marking posts, The dog-rose and the foxglove and the lime. Then on a day the church-bells rang a chime. Men fired the bells till all the valley filled With bell-noise from the belfry where the jackdaws build.
Lion and she were married; home they went, Home to The Roughs as man and wife; the news Was printed in the paper. Mary sent A copy out to Michael. Now we lose Sight of her for a time, and the great dews Fall, and the harvest-moon grows red and fills Over the barren fields where March brings daffodils.
The rider lingered at the fence a moment, Tossed out the pack to Michael, whistling low, Then rode, waving his hand, without more comment, Down the vast grey-green pampas sloping slow. Michael's last news had come so long ago, He wondered who had written now; the hand Thrilled him with vague alarm, it brought him to a stand.
He opened it with one eye on the hut, Lest she within were watching him, but she Was combing out her hair, the door was shut, The green sun-shutters closed, she could not see. Out fell the love-tryst handkerchief which he Had had embroidered with his name for her; It had been dearly kept, it smelt of lavender.
Something remained: a paper, crossed with blue, Where he should read; he stood there in the sun, Reading of Mary's wedding till he knew What he had cast away, what he had done. He was rejected, Lion was the one. Lion, the godly and the upright, he. The black lines in the paper showed how it could be.
He pocketed the love gift and took horse, And rode out to the pay-shed for his savings. Then turned, and rode a lonely water-course, Alone with bitter thoughts and bitter cravings. Sun-shadows on the reeds made twinkling wavings; An orange-bellied turtle scooped the mud; Mary had married Lion, and the news drew blood.
And with the bitterness, the outcast felt A passion for those old kind Shropshire places, The ruined chancel where the nuns had knelt; High Ercall and the Chase End and the Chases, The glimmering mere, the burr, the well-known faces, By Wrekin and by Zine and country town. The orange-bellied turtle burrowed further down.