The next chair vacant, by his ‘men _in us_.’ Since when was genius found respectable? It passes in its place, indeed,—which means The seventh floor back, or else the hospital: Revolving pistols are ingenious things, But prudent men (Academicians are) Scarce keep them in the cupboard, next the prunes. And so, abandoned to a bitter mirth, I loitered to my inn. O world, O world, O jurists, rhymers, dreamers, what you please, We play a weary game of hide-and-seek! We shape a figure of our fantasy, Call nothing something, and run after it And lose it, lose ourselves too in the search; Till, clash against us, comes a somebody Who also has lost something and is lost, Philosopher against philanthropist, Academician against poet, man Against woman, against the living, the dead,— Then home, with a bad headache and worse jest! To change the water for my heliotropes And yellow roses. Paris has such flowers. But England, also. ’Twas a yellow rose, By that south window of the little house, My cousin Romney gathered with his hand On all my birthdays for me, save the last; And then I shook the tree too rough, too rough, For roses to stay after. Now, my maps. I must not linger here from Italy Till the last nightingale is tired of song, And the last fire-fly dies off in the maize. My soul’s in haste to leap into the sun And scorch and seethe itself to a finer mood, Which here, in this chill north, is apt to stand Too stiffly in former moulds. That-face persists. It floats up, it turns over in my mind, As like to Marian, as one dead is like The same alive. In very deed a face And not a fancy, though it vanished so; The small fair face between the darks of hair, I used to liken, when I saw her first, To a point of moonlit, water down a well: The low brow, the frank space between the eyes, Which always had the brown pathetic look Of a dumb creature who had been beaten once, And never since was easy with the world. Ah, ah—now I remember perfectly Those eyes, to-day,—how overlarge they seemed, As if some patient passionate despair (Like a coal dropt and forgot on tapestry, Which slowly burns a widening circle out) Had burnt them larger, larger. And those eyes To-day, I do remember, saw me too, As I saw them, with conscious lids astrain In recognition. Now, a fantasy, A simple shade or image of the brain, Is merely passive, does not retro-act, Is seen, but sees not. ’Twas a real face, Perhaps a real Marian. Which being so, I ought to write to Romney, ‘Marian’s here. Be comforted for Marian.’ My pen fell, My hands struck sharp together, as hands do Which hold at nothing.