Six months, and I sit still and hold In two cold palms her cold two feet. Her hair, half grey half ruined gold, Thrills me and burns me in kissing it. Love bites and stings me through, to see Her keen face made of sunken bones. Her worn-off eyelids madden me, That were shot through with purple once. She said, "Be good with me; I grow So tired for shame's sake, I shall die If you say nothing:" even so. And she is dead now, and shame put by. Yea, and the scorn she had of me In the old time, doubtless vexed her then. I never should have kissed her. See What fools God's anger makes of men! She might have loved me a little too, Had I been humbler for her sake. But that new shame could make love new She saw not--yet her shame did make. I took too much upon my love, Having for such mean service done Her beauty and all the ways thereof, Her face and all the sweet thereon. Yea, all this while I tended her, I know the old love held fast his part: I know the old scorn waxed heavier, Mixed with sad wonder, in her heart. It may be all my love went wrong-- A scribe's work writ awry and blurred, Scrawled after the blind evensong-- Spoilt music with no perfect word. But surely I would fain have done All things the best I could. Perchance Because I failed, came short of one, She kept at heart that other man's. I am grown blind with all these things: It may be now she hath in sight Some better knowledge; still there clings The old question. Will not God do right?[3]