"
What was he like to say,
But, overcome with love and tears, to choose
The keener sorrow,--take it to his heart,
Cherish it, make it part of him, and watch
Those eyes that were his light till they should close?
He answered her with eager, faltering words,
"I choose,--my heart is yours,--die in my arms."
But was it well? Truly, at first, for him
It was not well: he saw her fade, and cried,
"When may this be?" She answered, "When you will,"
And cared not much, for very faint she grew,
Tired and cold. Oft in her soul she thought,
"If I could slip away before the ring
Is on my hand, it were a blessed lot
For both,--a blessed thing for him, and me."
But it was not so; for the day had come,--
Was over: days and months had come, and Death,--
Within whose shadow she had lain, which made
Earth and its loves, and even its bitterness,
Indifferent,--Death withdrew himself, and life
Woke up, and found that it was folded fast,
Drawn to another life forevermore.
O, what a waking! After it there came
Great silence. She got up once more, in spring,
And walked, but not alone, among the flowers.
She thought within herself, "What have I done?
How shall I do the rest?" And he, who felt
Her inmost thought, was silent even as she.
"What have we done?" she thought. But as for him,
When she began to look him in the face,
Considering, "Thus and thus his features are,"
For she had never thought on them before,
She read their grave repose aright.
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