If I'd been false,
I have but mounted higher
Toward a spacious summit,
Bourne of all soaring vows.
The buds we gathered in the vale have perished.
Branches that offered roofs of shimmering green motley,
Their summer service rendered,
Divested themselves,
Framing rude necessary heights.
I have but mounted higher
Toward a spacious summit,
Bourne of all soaring vows.
The buds we gathered in the vale have perished.
Branches that offered roofs of shimmering green motley,
Their summer service rendered,
Divested themselves,
Framing rude necessary heights.
Yet you sit plaintive there while I aspire,
Intent upon a goal you will not see.
Must I descend to you?
Or shall I venture still?—My staff
An accusation of inconstancy.
Intent upon a goal you will not see.
Must I descend to you?
Or shall I venture still?—My staff
An accusation of inconstancy.
What did it mean? Why was it marked? Who had written it? Why was it lying on Keble's desk? She stood cold and still, her gaze returning again and again to the paper in her hand.
Unable to answer the questions, she sat down and made an ink copy of the brutal lines. When the last word was written she replaced the original on the table and took the copy to her bedroom, reading it, unconsciously memorizing it, making room in her philosophy for its egoistic claim, and finally locking it in the box that sheltered her youthful manuscripts.
Although she did not refer to the enigmatic poem, she knew that to its discovery could be traced a
