At the last moment I could trace his form, Edward leaned over from his giddy seat, And tossed out something on the air. I saw The little missive fluttering slowly down, And stretched my hand to catch it, for I knew, Or thought I knew, that it would come to me. And it did come to me--as if it slid Upon the cord that bound my heart to his-- Strained to its utmost tension--snapped at last. I marked it as it fell. It was a rose. I grasped it madly as it struck my hand, And buried all its thorns within my palm; But the fierce pain released my prisoned voice, And, with a shriek, I staggered, swooned, and fell. That night was brushed from life. A passing friend Directed those who bore me rudely off; And I was carried to my home, and laid Entranced upon my bed. The Sabbath morn That followed all this din and devilry Swung noiseless wide its doors of yellow light, And in the hallowed stillness I awoke. My heart was still; I could not stir a hand. I thought that I was dying, or was dead.-- That I had slipped through smooth unconsciousness Into the everlasting silences. I could not speak; but winning strength, at last, I turned my eyes to seek for Edward's face, And saw an unpressed pillow. He was gone! I was oppressed with awful sense of loss; And, as a mother, by a turbid sea That has engulfed her fairest child, sits down And moans over the waters, and looks out With curious despair upon the waves, Until she marks a lock of floating hair, And by its threads of gold draws slowly in, And clasps and presses to her frenzied breast The form it has no power to warm again, So I, beside the sea of memory, Lay feebly moaning, yearning for a clew By which to reach my own extinguished life. It came. A burning pain shot through my palm, And thorns awoke what thorns had put to sleep. It all came back to me--the roar, the rush, The upturned faces, the insane hurrahs, The skyward-shooting spectacle, the shame-- And then I swooned again. _Grace_. But was he killed? Did his foolhardy venture end in wreck? Or did it end in something worse than wreck? Surely, he came again! _Mary_. To me, no more. He had his reasons, and I knew them soon; But, first, the fire enkindled in my brain Burnt through long weeks of fever--burnt my frame Until it lay upon the sheet as white As the pale ashes of a wasted coal. Then, when strength came to me, and I could sit, Braced by the double pillows that were mine, A kind friend took my hand, and told me all.