"Alone," I said, "from earlier than I know,
Immersed in rich foreshadowings of the world,
I loved the woman: he, that doth not, lives
295 A drowning life, besotted in sweet self,

Or pines in sad experience worse than death,
Or keeps his wing'd affections clipt with crime:
Yet was there one thro' whom I loved her, one
Not learned, save in gracious household ways,
300 Not perfect, nay, but full of tender wants,
No Angel, but a dearer being, all dipt
In Angel instincts, breathing Paradise,
Interpreter between the Gods and men,
Who look'd all native to her place, and yet
305 On tiptoe seem'd to touch upon a sphere

Too gross to tread, and all male minds perforce
Sway'd to her from their orbits as they moved,
And girdled her with music. Happy he

With such a mother! faith in womankind
310 Beats with his blood, and trust in all things high
Comes easy to him, and tho' he trip and fall

He shall not blind his soul with clay."

It seems you love to cheat yourself with words:

315 This mother is your model. I have heard

Of your strange doubts: they well might be: I seem A mockery to my own self. Never, Prince;

You cannot love me."

"Nay but thee," I said,

"From yearlong poring on thy pictured eyes,

320 Ere seen I loved, and loved thee seen, and saw

Thee woman thro' the crust of iron moods

That mask'd thee from men's reverence up, and forced

Sweet love on pranks of saucy boyhood: now,

Giv'n back to life, to life indeed, thro' thee,

325 Indeed I love the new day comes, the light

Dearer for night, as dearer thou for faults Lived over: lift thine eyes; my doubts are dead, My haunting sense of hollow shows: the change, This truthful change in thee has kill'd it. Dear, 330 Look up, and let thy nature strike on mine, Like yonder morning on the blind half-world; Approach and fear not; breathe upon my brows; In that fine air I tremble, all the past

Melts mist-like into this bright hour, and this 335 Is morn to more, and all the rich to-come

Reels, as the golden Autumn woodland reels
Athwart the smoke of burning weeds. Forgive me,
I waste my heart in signs: let be. My bride,
My wife, my life. Oh, we will walk this world,
340 Yoked in all exercise of noble end,

And so thro' those dark gates across the wild
That no man knows. Indeed I love thee: come,
Yield thyself up my hopes and thine are one:
Accomplish thou my manhood and thyself;
345 Lay thy sweet hands in mine and trust to me."

CONCLUSION

So closed our tale, of which I give you all The random scheme as wildly as it rose: The words are mostly mine; for when we ceased There came a minute's pause, and Walter said, 5 "I wish she had not yielded!" then to me, "What, if you drest it up poetically!"

So pray'd the men, the women: 1 gave assent: Yet how to bind the scatter'd scheme of seven Together in one sheaf? What style could suit? 10 The men required that I should give throughout That sort of mock-heroic gigantesque,

With which we banter'd little Lilia first:

The women and perhaps they felt their power, For something in the ballads which they sang,

15 Or in their silent influence as they sat,

Had ever seem'd to wrestle with burlesque,
And drove us, last, to quite a solemn close
They hated banter, wish'd for something real,
A gallant fight, a noble princess-why

20 Not make her true-heroic - true-sublime?
Or all, they said, as earnest as the close?
Which yet with such a framework scarce could be.
Then rose a little feud betwixt the two,
Betwixt the mockers and the realists:

25 And I, betwixt them both, to please them both,
And yet to give the story as it rose,