Her broad wild woodland eyes shot out a light; Her smile was wonderful for rapture. ‘Thanks, My great Aurora.’ Forward then she sprang, And dropping her impassioned spaniel head With all its brown abandonment of curls On Romney’s feet, we heard the kisses drawn Through sobs upon the foot, upon the ground— O Romney! O my angel! O unchanged, Though, since we’ve parted, I have past the grave! But Death itself could only better _thee_, Not change thee!—_Thee_ I do not thank at all: I but thank God who made thee what thou art, So wholly godlike.’ When he tried in vain To raise her to his embrace, escaping thence As any leaping fawn from a huntsman’s grasp, She bounded off and ‘lighted beyond reach, Before him, with a staglike majesty Of soft, serene defiance,—as she knew He could not touch her, so was tolerant He had cared to try. She stood there with her great Drowned eyes, and dripping cheeks, and strange sweet smile That lived through all, as if one held a light Across a waste of waters,—shook her head To keep some thoughts down deeper in her soul,— Then, white and tranquil as a summer-cloud Which, having rained itself to a tardy peace, Stands still in heaven as if it ruled the day, Spoke out again—‘Although, my generous friend, Since last we met and parted, you’re unchanged, And, having promised faith to Marian Erle, Maintain it, as she were not changed at all; And though that’s worthy, though that’s full of balm To any conscious spirit of a girl Who once has loved you as I loved you once,— Yet still it will not make her ... if she’s dead, And gone away where none can give or take In marriage,—able to revive, return And wed you,—will it, Romney? Here’s the point; O friend, we’ll see it plainer: you and I Must never, never, never join hands so. Nay, let me say it,—for I said it first To God, and placed it, rounded to an oath, Far, far above the moon there, at His feet, As surely as I wept just now at yours,— We never, never, never join hands so. And now, be patient with me; do not think I’m speaking from a false humility. The truth is, I am grown so proud with grief, And He has said so often through his nights And through his mornings, ‘Weep a little still, Thou foolish Marian, because women must, But do not blush at all except for sin,’— That I, who felt myself unworthy once Of virtuous Romney and his high-born race, Have come to learn, ... a woman, poor or rich, Despised or honoured, is a human soul; And what her soul is,—that, she is herself, Although she should be spit upon of men, As is the pavement of the churches here, Still good enough to pray in. And, being chaste And honest, and inclined to do the right, And love the truth, and live my life out green