And now for ever has my sweet love gone; And weary, empty days I must drag on, Till all the days of all my life be sped, By no thought cheered, by no hope comforted. For if indeed we meet among the shades, How shall he know me from the other maids?-- Me, that had died to save his body pain! Alas, alas, such idle thoughts are vain! O cruel, cruel sunlight, get thee gone! O dear, dim shades of eve, come swiftly on! That when quick lips, keen eyes, are closed in sleep, Through the long night till dawn I then may weep. _Magdalen._ [Illustration: text decoration] All things I can endure, save one. The bare, blank room where is no sun; The parcelled hours; the pallet hard; The dreary faces here within; The outer women’s cold regard; The Pastor’s iterated “sin”;-- These things could I endure, and count No overstrain’d, unjust amount; No undue payment for such bliss-- Yea, all things bear, save only this: That you, who knew what thing would be, Have wrought this evil unto me. It is so strange to think on still-- That you, that _you_ should do me ill! Not as one ignorant or blind, But seeing clearly in your mind How this must be which now has been, Nothing aghast at what was seen. Now that the tale is told and done, It is so strange to think upon. You were so tender with me, too! One summer’s night a cold blast blew, Closer about my throat you drew The half-slipt shawl of dusky blue. And once my hand, on a summer’s morn, I stretched to pluck a rose; a thorn Struck through the flesh and made it bleed (A little drop of blood indeed!) Pale grew your cheek; you stoopt and bound Your handkerchief about the wound; Your voice came with a broken sound; With the deep breath your breast was riven; I wonder, did God laugh in Heaven? How strange, that _you_ should work my woe! How strange! I wonder, do you know How gladly, gladly I had died (And life was very sweet that tide) To save you from the least, light ill? How gladly I had borne your pain. With one great pulse we seem’d to thrill,-- Nay, but we thrill’d with pulses twain. Even if one had told me this, “A poison lurks within your kiss, Gall that shall turn to night his day:” Thereon I straight had turned away-- Ay, tho’ my heart had crack’d with pain--And never kiss’d your lips again.