Seen still before him at work, in the garden, the byre, the kitchen; How it was beautiful to him to stoop at her side in the shearing, Binding uncouthly the ears that fell from her dexterous sickle, Building uncouthly the stooks,[10] which she laid by her sickle to straighten, How at the dance he had broken through shyness; for four days after Lived on her eyes, unspeaking what lacked not articulate speaking; Felt too that she too was feeling what he did.—Howbeit they parted! How by a kiss from her lips he had seemed made nobler and stronger, Yea, for the first time in life a man complete and perfect, So forth! much that before has been heard of.—Howbeit they parted! What had ended it all, he said, was singular, very.— I was walking along some two miles off from the cottage Full of my dreamings—a girl went by in a party with others; She had a cloak on, was stepping on quickly, for rain was beginning; But as she passed, from her hood I saw her eyes look at me. So quick a glance, so regardless I, that although I had felt it, You couldn’t properly say our eyes met. She cast it, and left it: It was three minutes perhaps ere I knew what it was. I had seen her Somewhere before I am sure, but that wasn’t it; not its import; No, it had seemed to regard me with simple superior insight, Quietly saying to itself—Yes, there he is still in his fancy, Letting drop from him at random as things not worth his considering All the benefits gathered and put in his hands by fortune, Loosing a hold which others, contented and unambitious, Trying down here to keep up, know the value of better than he does, What is this? was it perhaps?—Yes, there he is still in his fancy, Doesn’t yet see we have here just the things he is used to elsewhere; People here too are people and not as fairy-land creatures; He is in a trance, and possessed; I wonder how long to continue; It is a shame and a pity—and no good likely to follow.— Something like this, but indeed I cannot attempt to define it. Only, three hours thence I was off and away in the moorland, Hiding myself from myself if I could; the arrow within me. Katie was not in the house, thank God: I saw her in passing, Saw her, unseen myself, with the pang of a cruel desertion; What she thinks about it, God knows! poor child; may she only Think me a fool and a madman, and no more worth her remembering! Meantime all through the mountains I hurry and know not whither, Tramp along here, and think, and know not what I should think. Tell me then, why, as I sleep amid hill-tops high in the moorland, Still in my dreams I am pacing the streets of the dissolute city, Where dressy girls slithering by upon pavements give sign for accosting, Paint on their beautiless cheeks, and hunger and shame in their bosoms; Hunger by drink, and by that which they shudder yet burn for, appeasing,—