Of that great love was a nameless passion, Bright as the blaze of the sun at noonday, Wild as the flames of hell; but, mark you, Never a whit less pure for its fervor. The baseness in me (for I was human) Burned like a worm, and perished; and nothing Was left me then but a soul that mingled Itself with hers, and swayed and shuddered In fearful triumph. When I consider That helpless love and the cursed folly That wrecked my life for the sake of a woman Who broke with a laugh the chains of her marriage (Whatever the word may mean), I wonder If all the woe was her sin, or whether The chains themselves were enough to lead her In love's despite to break them. . . . Sinners And saints -- I say -- are rocked in the cradle, But never are known till the will within them Speaks in its own good time. So I foster Even to-night for the woman who wronged me, Nothing of hate, nor of love, but a feeling Of still regret; for the man -- But hear me, And judge for yourself: -- For a time the seasons Changed and passed in a sweet succession That seemed to me like an endless music: Life was a rolling psalm, and the choirs Of God were glad for our love. I fancied All this, and more than I dare to tell you To-night, -- yes, more than I dare to remember; And then -- well, the music stopped. There are moments In all men's lives when it stops, I fancy, -- Or seems to stop, -- till it comes to cheer them Again with a larger sound. The curtain Of life just then is lifted a little To give to their sight new joys -- new sorrows -- Or nothing at all, sometimes. I was watching The slow, sweet scenes of a golden picture, Flushed and alive with a long delusion That made the murmur of home, when I shuddered And felt like a knife that awful silence That comes when the music goes -- forever. The truth came over my life like a darkness Over a forest where one man wanders, Worse than alone. For a time I staggered And stumbled on with a weak persistence After the phantom of hope that darted And dodged like a frightened thing before me, To quit me at last, and vanish. Nothing Was left me then but the curse of living And bearing through all my days the fever And thirst of a poisoned love. Were I stronger, Or weaker, perhaps my scorn had saved me, Given me strength to crush my sorrow With hate for her and the world that praised her -- To have left her, then and there -- to have conquered That old false life with a new and a wiser, -- Such things are easy in words. You listen, And frown, I suppose, that I never mention That beautiful word, FORGIVE! -- I forgave her First of all; and I praised kind Heaven That I was a brave, clean man to do it;