O to whom Grief too poignant was and dry To sow in thee a fountain crop of tears! O youth, O pride, set too remote and high For touch of solace that gives grace to men! Thy life must be our death, thy hopes our fears: We weep, thou lookest strangely--we know thee then!
Long loving, all our love was husbanded Until one morning on the brown hillside, One misty Autumn morn when Sun did hide His radiance, yet was felt. No words we said, But in one flash transfigured, glorified, All her heart's tumult beating white and red, She fell prone on her face and hid her wide Over-brimmed eyes in dewy fern. I prayed, Then spake, "In us two now is manifest That throbbing kindred whereof thou art graft And I the grafted, in this holy place." She, turning half, with sober shame confest Discovery, then hid her rosy face. I read her wilding heart, and my heart laught.
That day--it was the last of many days, Nor could we know when such days might be given Again--we read how Dante trod the ways Of utmost Hell, and how his heart was riven By sad Francesca, whose sin was forgiven So far that, on her Paolo fixing gaze, She supt on his again, and thought it Heaven, She knew her gentler fate and felt it praise.
We read that lovers' tale; each lookt at each; But one was fearless, innocent of guile; So did the other learn what she could teach: We read no more, we kiss'd not, but a smile Of proud possession flasht, hover'd a while 'Twixt soul and soul. There was no need for speech.
When she had left us but a little while Methought I sensed her spirit here and there About my house: upon the empty stair Her robe brusht softly; o'er her chamber still There lay her fragrant presence to beguile Numb heart, dead heart. I knelt before her chair, And praying felt her hand laid on my hair, Felt her sweet breath, and guess'd her wistful smile.
Then thro' my tears I lookt about the room, But she was gone. I heard my heart beat fast; The street was silent; I could not see her now. Sorrow and I took up our load, and past To where our station was with heads bent low, And autumn's death-moan shiver'd thro' the gloom.
When she had left us but a little while, I still could hear the ringing of her voice, Still see athwart the dusk her shy half-smile And that sweet trust wherein I most rejoice.