THE FACE AT THE CASEMENT
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F ever joy leaveAn abiding sting of sorrow,So befell it on the morrowOf that May eve . . . The travelled sun droppedTo the north-west, low and lower,The pony’s trot grew slower,And then we stopped. “This cosy house just byI must call at for a minute,A sick man lies within itWho soon will die. “He wished to marry me,So I am bound, when I drive near him,To inquire, if but to cheer him,How he may be.” A message was sent in,And wordlessly we waited,Till some one came and statedThe bulletin. And that the sufferer said,For her call no words could thank her;As his angel he must rank herTill life’s spark fled. Slowly we drove away,When I turned my head, although notCalled; why so I turned I know notEven to this day. And lo, there in my viewPressed against an upper latticeWas a white face, gazing at usAs we withdrew. And well did I divineIt to be the man’s there dying,Who but lately had been sighingFor her pledged mine. Then I deigned a deed of hell;It was done before I knew it;What devil made me do itI cannot tell! Yes, while he gazed above,I put my arm about herThat he might see, nor doubt herMy plighted Love. The pale face vanished quick,As if blasted, from the casement,And my shame and self-abasementBegan their prick. And they prick on, ceaselessly,For that stab in Love’s fierce fashionWhich, unfired by lover’s passion,Was foreign to me. She smiled at my caress,But why came the soft embowmentOf her shoulder at that momentShe did not guess. Long long years has he lainIn thy garth, O sad Saint Cleather:What tears there, bared to weather,Will cleanse that stain! Love is long-suffering, brave,Sweet, prompt, precious as a jewel;But O, too, Love is cruel,Cruel as the grave.
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