Hear, I complain--
Like a weak ailing woman I complain.
_J_. For the first time.
_M_. I cannot bear the dark.
_J_. My brother! you do bear it--bear it well--
Have borne it twelve long months, and not complained
Comfort your heart with music: all the air
Is warm with sunbeams where the organ stands.
You like to feel them on you. Come and play.
_M_. My fate, my fate is lonely!
_J_. So it is--
I know it is.
_M_. And pity breaks my heart.
_J_. Does it, dear Merton?
_M_. Yes, I say it does.
What! do you think I am so dull of ear
That I can mark no changes in the tones
That reach me? Once I liked not girlish pride
And that coy quiet, chary of reply,
That held me distant: now the sweetest lips
Open to entertain me--fairest hands
Are proffered me to guide.
_J_. That is not well?
_M_. No: give me coldness, pride, or still disdain,
Gentle withdrawal. Give me anything
But this--a fearless, sweet, confiding ease,
Whereof I may expect, I may exact,
Considerate care, and have it--gentle speech,
And have it. Give me anything but this!
For they who give it, give it in the faith
That I will not misdeem them, and forget
My doom so far as to perceive thereby
Hope of a wife. They make this thought too plain;
They wound me--O they cut me to the heart!
When have I said to any one of them,
"I am a blind and desolate man;--come here,
I pray you--be as eyes to me?" When said,
Even to her whose pitying voice is sweet
To my dark ruined heart, as must be hands
That clasp a lifelong captive's through the grate,
And who will ever lend her delicate aid
To guide me, dark encumbrance that I am!--
When have I said to her, "Comforting voice,
Belonging to a face unknown, I pray
Be my wife's voice?"
_J_.
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