In what a dreadful trap his creature here,
Round whose unworthy neck he had meant to tie
The honourable ribbon of his name,
Fell unaware and came to butchery:
Because,—I know him,—as he takes to heart
The grief of every stranger, he’s not like
To banish mine as far as I should choose
In wishing him most happy. Now he leaves
To think of me, perverse, who went my way,
Unkind, and left him,—but if once he knew . .
Ah, then, the sharp nail of my cruel wrong
Would fasten me for ever in his sight,
Like some poor curious bird, through each spread wing
Nailed high up over a fierce hunter’s fire
To spoil the dinner of all tenderer folk
Come in by chance. Nay, since your Marian’s dead,
You shall not hang her up, but dig a hole
And bury her in silence! ring no bells.’
I answered gaily, though my whole voice wept,
‘We’ll ring the joy-bells, not the funeral-bells,
Because we have her back, dead or alive.’
She never answered that, but shook her head;
Then low and calm, as one who, safe in heaven,
Shall tell a story of his lower life,
Unmoved by shame or anger,—so she spoke.
She told me she had loved upon her knees
As others pray, more perfectly absorbed
In the act and inspiration. She felt his,
