When he and you fought many a field of gold On what you should do, or you should not do, Make bread or verses, (it just came to that) I thought you’d one day draw a silken peace Through a golden ring. I thought so. Foolishly, The event proved,—for you went more opposite To each other, month by month, and year by year, Until this happened. God knows best, we say, But hoarsely. When the fever took him first, Just after I had writ to you in France, They tell me Lady Waldemar mixed drinks And counted grains, like any salaried nurse, Excepting that she wept too. Then Lord Howe, You’re right about Lord Howe! Lord Howe’s a trump; And yet, with such in his hand, a man like Leigh May lose, as _he_ does. There’s an end to all,— Yes, even this letter, though the second sheet May find you doubtful. Write a word for Kate: Even now she reads my letters like a wife, And, if she sees her name, I’ll see her smile, And share the luck. So, bless you, friend of two! I will not ask you what your feeling is At Florence, with my pictures. I can hear Your heart a-flutter over the snow-hills; And, just to pace the Pitti with you once, I’d give a half-hour of to-morrow’s walk With Kate ... I think so. Vincent Carrington.’ The noon was hot; the air scorched like the sun, And was shut out. The closed persiani threw Their long-scored shadows on my villa-floor, And interlined the golden atmosphere Straight, still,—across the pictures on the wall, The statuette on the console, (of young Love And Psyche made one marble by a kiss) The low couch where I leaned, the table near, The vase of lilies, Marian pulled last night, (Each green leaf and each white leaf ruled in black As if for writing some new text of fate) And the open letter, rested on my knee,— But there, the lines swerved, trembled, though I sate Untroubled ... plainly, ... reading it again And three times. Well, he’s married; that is clear. No wonder that he’s married, nor much more That Vincent’s therefore, ‘sorry.’ Why, of course, The lady nursed him when he was not well, Mixed drinks,—unless nepenthe was the drink, ’Twas scarce worth telling. But a man in love Will see the whole sex in his mistress’ hood, The prettier for its lining of fair rose; Although he catches back, and says at last, ‘I’m sorry.’ Sorry. Lady Waldemar At prettiest, under the said hood, preserved From such a light as I could hold to her face To flare its ugly wrinkles out to shame,— Is scarce a wife for Romney, as friends judge, Aurora Leigh, or Vincent Carrington,— That’s plain. And if he’s ‘conscious of my heart’ ... Perhaps it’s natural, though the phrase is strong; (One’s apt to use strong phrases, being in love) And even that stuff of ‘fields of gold,’ ‘gold rings,’