Said I then, sunk in tone, “I am merest mimicker and counterfeit!— Though thinking, _I am I_, _And what I do I do myself alone_.” —The cynic twist of the page thereat unknit Back to its normal figure, having wrought its purport wry, The Mage’s mirror left the window-square, And the stained moon and drift retook their places there. 1916. THIS HEART A WOMAN’S DREAM AT midnight, in the room where he lay dead Whom in his life I had never clearly read, I thought if I could peer into that citadel His heart, I should at last know full and well What hereto had been known to him alone, Despite our long sit-out of years foreflown, “And if,” I said, “I do this for his memory’s sake, It would not wound him, even if he could wake.” So I bent over him. He seemed to smile With a calm confidence the whole long while That I, withdrawing his heart, held it and, bit by bit, Perused the unguessed things found written on it. It was inscribed like a terrestrial sphere With quaint vermiculations close and clear— His graving. Had I known, would I have risked the stroke Its reading brought, and my own heart nigh broke! Yes, there at last, eyes opened, did I see His whole sincere symmetric history; There were his truth, his simple singlemindedness, Strained, maybe, by time’s storms, but there no less. There were the daily deeds from sun to sun In blindness, but good faith, that he had done; There were regrets, at instances wherein he swerved (As he conceived) from cherishings I had deserved. There were old hours all figured down as bliss— Those spent with me—(how little had I thought this!) There those when, at my absence, whether he slept or waked, (Though I knew not ’twas so!) his spirit ached. There that when we were severed, how day dulled Till time joined us anew, was chronicled: And arguments and battlings in defence of me That heart recorded clearly and ruddily. I put it back, and left him as he lay While pierced the morning pink and then the gray Into each dreary room and corridor around, Where I shall wait, but his step will not sound. WHERE THEY LIVED DISHEVELLED leaves creep down Upon that bank to-day, Some green, some yellow, and some pale brown; The wet bents bob and sway; The once warm slippery turf is sodden Where we laughingly sat or lay. The summerhouse is gone, Leaving a weedy space; The bushes that veiled it once have grown Gaunt trees that interlace, Through whose lank limbs I see too clearly The nakedness of the place.