I took his arm, And, as I feebly staggered down the stairs, He broke to me with lack of useless words The awful truth.... The old familiar tale: She counterfeited sleep: the nurses both, Weary with over-watching in their chairs, Under the cumbrous stillness, slept indeed; And when she knew it, she escaped; and then She did the deed to which for many years She had been predisposed. Perhaps I knew The nature of the case: perhaps I knew My father went that way. I clutched his arm: There was no need of words. The parlor door Stood open, and a throng of silent friends, Choking with tears, gazed on a silent form Shrouded in snowy linen. They made way For me and my companion. On my knees I clasped the precious clay, and pouring forth My pitying love and tenderness for her, I gave indignant voice to my complaint Against the Being who, to all her prayers For succor and security, had turned A deaf, dead ear and a repelling hand. To what blaspheming utterance I gave My raving passion, may the God I cursed Forbid my shrinking memory to recall! I now remember only that when drawn By strong, determined hands away from her, The room was vacant. Every pitying friend Had flown my presence and the room, to find Release of sensibility from words That roused their superstitious souls to fear That God would smite me through the blinding smoke Of my great torment. Silence, for the rest! It was a dream; and only as a dream Do I remember it: the coffined form, The funeral--a concourse of the town-- The trembling prayer for me, the choking sobs, The long procession, the descending clods, The slow return, articulated all With wild, mad words of mine, and gentle speech Of those who sought to curb or comfort me-- All was a dream, from which I woke at length With heart as dead as hers who slept. The heavens Were brass above me, and the breathing world Was void and meaningless. When told to pray, This was the logic of my heart's reply: If God be Love, not such is He to me Nor such to mine. If He heard not the voice Of such a lovely saint as she I mourned, Mine would but rouse His vengeance. So I closed With Reason's hand the adamantine doors Which only Faith unlocks, and shut my soul Away from God, the warder of a gang Of passions that in darkness stormed or gloomed And with each other fought, or on themselves Gnawed for the nourishment which I denied. COMPLAINT. River, sparkling river, I have fault to find with thee River, thou dost never give a word of peace to me! Dimpling to each touch of sunshine, wimpling to each air that blows, Thou dost make no sweet replying to my sighing for repose.