Except that I was prouder than I knew, And not so honest. Ay, and, as I live, I should have died so, crushing in my hand This rose of love, the wasp inside and all,— Ignoring ever to my soul and you Both rose and pain,—except for this great loss, This great despair,—to stand before your face And know I cannot win a look of yours. You think, perhaps, I am not changed from pride, And that I chiefly bear to say such words, Because you cannot shame me with your eyes? O calm, grand eyes, extinguished in a storm, Blown out like lights o’er melancholy seas, Though shrieked for by the shipwrecked,—O my Dark, My Cloud,—to go before me every day While I go ever toward the wilderness,— I would that you could see me bare to the soul!— If this be pity, ’tis so for myself, And not for Romney: _he_ can stand alone; A man like _him_ is never overcome: No woman like me, counts him pitiable While saints applaud him. He mistook the world: But I mistook my own heart,—and that slip Was fatal. Romney,—will you leave me here? So wrong, so proud, so weak, so unconsoled, So mere a woman!—and I love you so,— I love you, Romney.’ Could I see his face, I wept so? Did I drop against his breast, Or did his arms constrain me? Were my cheeks Hot, overflooded, with my tears, or his? And which of our two large explosive hearts So shook me? That, I know not. There were words That broke in utterance ... melted, in the fire; Embrace, that was convulsion, ... then a kiss ... As long and silent as the ecstatic night,—And deep, deep, shuddering breaths, which meant beyond Whatever could be told by word or kiss.