Rogue
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That swept itself in a quivering answer
Leapt with an aching speed; and the measure
Till it seemed the sky and the land and the ocean
Around us two. And we stood for a season
That we were the king and the queen of the fire
Blind to the new world soon to be ours --
Of that great love.html">love.html">love.html">love was a nameless passion,
Wild as the flames of hell; but, mark you,
The baseness in me (for I was human)
Was left me then but a soul that mingled
In fearful triumph. When I consider
That wrecked my life for the sake of a woman
(Whatever the word may mean), I wonder
The chains themselves were enough to lead her
And saints -- I say -- are rocked in the cradle,
Speaks in its own good time. So I foster
Nothing of hate, nor of love, but a feeling
And judge for yourself: --
For a time the seasons
That seemed to me like an endless music.html">music:
Of God were glad for our love. I fancied
To-night, -- yes, more than I dare to remember;
In all men's lives when it stops, I fancy, --
Again with a larger sound. The curtain
To give to their sight new joys -- new sorrows --
The slow, sweet scenes of a golden picture,
That made the murmur of home, when I shuddered
That comes when the music goes -- forever.
Over a forest where one man wanders,
And stumbled on with a weak persistence
And dodged like a frightened thing before me,
Was left me then but the curse of living
And thirst of a poisoned love. Were I stronger,
Given me strength to crush my sorrow
To have left her, then and there -- to have conquered
Such things are easy in words. You listen,
.
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