LITMIR.BIZ

         Till I, maybe overweary

      From the lateness, and a wayfaring so full of strain and stress

      For one no longer buoyant, to a peak so steep and eery,

         Sank to slow unconsciousness.

         How long I slept I knew not,

      But the brief warm summer night had slid when, to my swift surprise,

      A red upedging sun, of glory chambered mortals view not,

         Was blazing on my eyes,

         From the Milton Woods to Dole-Hill

      All the spacious landscape lighting, and around about my feet

      Flinging tall thin tapering shadows from the meanest mound and mole-hill,

         And on trails the ewes had beat.

         She was sitting still beside me,

      Dozing likewise; and I turned to her, to take her hanging hand;

      When, the more regarding, that which like a spectre shook and tried me

         In her image then I scanned;

         That which Time’s transforming chisel

      Had been tooling night and day for twenty years, and tooled too well,

      In its rendering of crease where curve was, where was raven, grizzle —

         Pits, where peonies once did dwell.

         She had wakened, and perceiving

      (I surmise) my sigh and shock, my quite involuntary dismay,

      Up she started, and – her wasted figure all throughout it heaving —

         Said, “Ah, yes: I am thus by day!

         “Can you really wince and wonder

      That the sunlight should reveal you such a thing of skin and bone,

      As if unaware a Death’s-head must of need lie not far under

         Flesh whose years out-count your own?

         “Yes: that movement was a warning

      Of the worth of man’s devotion! – Yes, Sir, I am old,” said she,

      “And the thing which should increase love turns it quickly into scorning —

         And your new-won heart from me!”

         Then she went, ere I could call her,

      With the too proud temper ruling that had parted us before,

      And I saw her form descend the slopes, and smaller grow and smaller,

         Till I caught its course no more.

         True; I might have dogged her downward;

      – But it may be (though I know not) that this trick on us of Time

      Disconcerted and confused me. – Soon I bent my footsteps townward,

         Like to one who had watched a crime.

         Well I knew my native weakness,

      Well I know it still.  I cherished her reproach like physic-wine,

      For I saw in that emaciate shape of bitterness and bleakness

         A nobler soul than mine.

         Did I not return, then, ever? —

      Did we meet again? – mend all? – Alas, what greyhead perseveres! —

      Soon I got the Route elsewhither. – Since that hour I have seen her never:

         Love is lame at fifty years.