Pitiful heaven! I knew she did not hear In that last hour the cursing, nor the foul Words; she had never heard like words, sweet soul, In her life blameless; even at that pass, That dreadful pass, I felt it had been worse, Though nought I longed for as for death, to know She did. She saw not 'neath their hoods those eyes Soft, glittering, with a lust for cruelty; Secret delight, that so great cruelty, All in the sacred name of Holy Church, Their meed to look on it should be anon. Speak! O, I tell you this thing passeth word! From roofs and oriels high, women looked down; Men, maidens, children, and a fierce white sun Smote blinding splinters from all spears aslant. Lo! next a stand, so please you, certain priests (May God forgive men sinning at their ease), Whose duty 't was to look upon this thing, Being mindful of thick pungent smoke to come, Had caused a stand to rise hard by the stake, Upon its windward side. My life! my love! She utter'd one sharp cry of mortal dread While they did chain her. This thing passeth words, Albeit told out for ever in my soul. As the torch touched, thick volumes of black reek Rolled out and raised the wind, and instantly Long films of flaxen hair floated aloft, Settled alow, in drifts upon the crowd. The vile were merciful; heaped high, my dear, Thou didst not suffer long. O! it was soon, Soon over, and I knew not any more, Till grovelling on the ground, beating my head, I heard myself, and scarcely knew 't was I, At Holy Church railing with fierce mad words, Crying and craving for a stake, for me. While fast the folk, as ever, such a work Being over, fled, and shrieked 'A heretic! More heretics; yon ashes smoking still.'