“Yea, too, the creatures sheltering round— Dumb figures, wild and tame, Yea, too, thy fellows who abound— Either of speech the same Or far and strange—black, dwarfed, and browned, They are stuff of thy own frame.” I moved on in a surging awe Of inarticulateness At the pathetic Me I saw In all his huge distress, Making self-slaughter of the law To kill, break, or suppress. THE FADED FACE HOW was this I did not see Such a look as here was shown Ere its womanhood had blown Past its first felicity?— That I did not know you young, Faded Face, Know you young! Why did Time so ill bestead That I heard no voice of yours Hail from out the curved contours Of those lips when rosy red; Weeted not the songs they sung, Faded Face, Songs they sung! By these blanchings, blooms of old, And the relics of your voice— Leavings rare of rich and choice From your early tone and mould— Let me mourn,—aye, sorrow-wrung, Faded Face, Sorrow-wrung! THE RIDDLE I STRETCHING eyes west Over the sea, Wind foul or fair, Always stood she Prospect-impressed; Solely out there Did her gaze rest, Never elsewhere Seemed charm to be. II Always eyes east Ponders she now— As in devotion— Hills of blank brow Where no waves plough. Never the least Room for emotion Drawn from the ocean Does she allow. THE DUEL “I AM here to time, you see; The glade is well-screened—eh?—against alarm; Fit place to vindicate by my arm The honour of my spotless wife, Who scorns your libel upon her life In boasting intimacy! “‘All hush-offerings you’ll spurn, My husband. Two must come; one only go,’ She said. ‘That he’ll be you I know; To faith like ours Heaven will be just, And I shall abide in fullest trust Your speedy glad return.’” “Good. Here am also I; And we’ll proceed without more waste of words To warm your cockpit. Of the swords Take you your choice. I shall thereby Feel that on me no blame can lie, Whatever Fate accords.” So stripped they there, and fought, And the swords clicked and scraped, and the onsets sped; Till the husband fell; and his shirt was red With streams from his heart’s hot cistern. Nought Could save him now; and the other, wrought Maybe to pity, said: “Why did you urge on this? Your wife assured you; and ’t had better been That you had let things pass, serene In confidence of long-tried bliss, Holding there could be nought amiss In what my words might mean.”