I thought not, when my dagger strook, Of thy blue eyes; I could not brook The past all pleading in one look Of utter sorrow, Rosaline! I did not know when thou wert dead: A blackbird whistling overhead Thrilled through my brain; I would have fled But dared not leave thee, Rosaline! A low, low moan, a light twig stirred By the upspringing of a bird, A drip of blood,—were all I heard— Then deathly stillness, Rosaline! The sun rolled down, and very soon, Like a great fire, the awful moon Rose, stained with blood, and then a swoon Crept chilly o’er me, Rosaline! The stars came out; and, one by one, Each angel from his silver throne Looked down and saw what I had done: I dared not hide me, Rosaline! I crouched; I feared thy corpse would cry Against me to God’s quiet sky, I thought I saw the blue lips try To utter something, Rosaline! I waited with a maddened grin To hear that voice all icy thin Slide forth and tell my deadly sin To hell and Heaven, Rosaline! But no voice came, and then it seemed That if the very corpse had screamed The sound like sunshine glad had streamed Through that dark stillness, Rosaline! Dreams of old quiet glimmered by, And faces loved in infancy Came and looked on me mournfully, Till my heart melted, Rosaline! I saw my mother’s dying bed, I heard her bless me, and I shed Cool tears—but lo! the ghastly dead Stared me to madness, Rosaline! And then amid the silent night I screamed with horrible delight, And in my brain an angel light Did seem to crackle, Rosaline! It is my curse! sweet mem’ries fall From me like snow—and only all Of that one night, like cold worms crawl My doomed heart over, Rosaline! Thine eyes are shut: they nevermore Will leap thy gentle words before To tell the secret o’er and o’er Thou could’st not smother, Rosaline! Thine eyes are shut: they will not shine With happy tears, or, through the vine That hid thy casement, beam on mine Sunfull with gladness, Rosaline! Thy voice I nevermore shall hear, Which in old times did seem so dear, That, ere it trembled in mine ear, My quick heart heard it, Rosaline! Would I might die! I were as well, Ay, better, at my home in Hell, To set for ay a burning spell ’Twixt me and memory, Rosaline! Why wilt thou haunt me with thine eyes, Wherein such blessed memories, Such pitying forgiveness lies, Than hate more bitter, Rosaline! Woe’s me! I know that love so high As thine, true soul, could never die, And with mean clay in church-yard lie— Would God it were so, Rosaline! * * * * * SONNET.