A narrow cave ran in beneath the cliff: In this the children play’d at keeping house. Enoch was host one day, Philip the next, 25 While Annie still was mistress; but at times Enoch would hold possession for a week: ‘This is my house and this my little wife.’ ‘Mine too,’ said Philip ‘turn and turn about:’ When, if they quarrell’d, Enoch stronger-made 30 Was master: then would Philip, his blue eyes All flooded with the helpless wrath of tears, Shriek out ‘I hate you, Enoch,’ and at this The little wife would weep for company, And pray them not to quarrel for her sake, 35 And say she would be little wife to both. But when the dawn of rosy childhood past, And the new warmth of life’s ascending sun Was felt by either, either fixt his heart On that one girl; and Enoch spoke his love, 40 But Philip loved in silence; and the girl Seem’d kinder unto Philip than to him; But she loved Enoch; tho’ she knew it not, And would if asked deny it. Enoch set A purpose evermore before his eyes, 45 To hoard all savings to the uttermost, To purchase his own boat, and make a home For Annie: and so prosper’d that at last A luckier or a bolder fisherman, A carefuller in peril, did not breathe 50 For leagues along that breaker-beaten coast Than Enoch. Likewise had he served a year On board a merchantman, and made himself Full sailor; and he thrice had pluck’d a life From the dread sweep of the downstreaming seas: 55 And all men look’d upon him favourably: And ere he touch’d his one and-twentieth May He purchased his own boat, and made a home For Annie, neat and nest-like, halfway up The narrow street that clamber’d toward the mill. 60 Then, on a golden autumn eventide, The younger people making holiday, With bag and sack and basket, great and small Went nutting to the hazels. Philip stay’d (His father lying sick and needing him) 65 An hour behind; but as he climbed the hill, Just where the prone edge of the wood began To feather toward the hollow, saw the pair, Enoch and Annie, sitting hand-in-hand, His large gray eyes and weather-beaten face 70 All kindled by a still and sacred fire, That burn’d as on an altar. Philip look’d, And in their eyes and faces read his doom; Then, as their faces drew together, groan’d; And slipt aside, and like a wounded life 75 Crept down into the hollows of the wood; There, while the rest were loud in merrymaking, Had his dark hour unseen, and rose and past Bearing a lifelong hunger in his heart.