But I, convicted, broken utterly, With woman’s passion clung about her waist, And kissed her hair and eyes,—‘I have been wrong, Sweet Marian’ ... (weeping in a tender rage) ‘Sweet holy Marian! And now, Marian, now, I’ll use your oath although my lips are hard, And by the child, my Marian, by the child, I’ll swear his mother shall be innocent Before my conscience, as in the open Book Of Him who reads for judgement. Innocent, My sister! let the night be ne’er so dark, The moon is surely somewhere in the sky; So surely is your whiteness to be found Through all dark facts. But pardon, pardon me, And smile a little, Marian,—for the child, If not for me, my sister.’ The poor lip Just motioned for the smile and let it go: And then, with scarce a stirring of the mouth, As if a statue spoke that could not breathe, But spoke on calm between its marble lips,— ‘I’m glad, I’m very glad you clear me so. I should be sorry that you set me down With harlots, or with even a better name Which misbecomes his mother. For the rest, I am not on a level with your love, Nor ever was, you know,—but now am worse, Because that world of yours has dealt with me As when the hard sea bites and chews a stone And changes the first form of it. I’ve marked A shore of pebbles bitten to one shape From all the various life of madrepores; And so, that little stone, called Marian Erle, Picked up and dropped by you and another friend, Was ground and tortured by the incessant sea And bruised from what she was,—changed! death’s a change, And she, I said, was murdered; Marian’s dead. What can you do with people when they are dead, But, if you are pious, sing a hymn and go, Or, if you are tender, heave a sigh and go, But go by all means,—and permit the grass To keep its green feud up ’twixt them and you? Then leave me,—let me rest. I’m dead, I say. And if, to save the child from death as well, The mother in me has survived the rest, Why, that’s God’s miracle you must not tax,— I’m not less dead for that: I’m nothing more But just a mother. Only for the child, I’m warm, and cold, and hungry, and afraid, And smell the flowers a little, and see the sun, And speak still, and am silent,—just for him! I pray you therefore to mistake me not, And treat me, haply, as I were alive; For though you ran a pin into my soul, I think it would not hurt nor trouble me. Here’s proof, dear lady,—in the market-place But now, you promised me to say a word About ... a friend, who once, long years ago, Took God’s place toward me, when He draws and loves And does not thunder, ... whom at last I left, As all of us leave God. You thought perhaps, I seemed to care for hearing of that friend? Now, judge me! we have sate here half-an-hour