The deep strong woman is weakest, the weak one is the strong; The weapon of all weapons best for winning, you have not used; Have you never been able, or would you not, through the evil times and long? Has not the gift been given you, or such gift have you refused? When I bade me not absolve you on that evening or the morrow, Why did you not make war on me with those who weep like rain? You felt too much, so gained no balm for all your torrid sorrow, And hence our deep division, and our dark undying pain. BEREFT, SHE THINKS SHE DREAMS I DREAM that the dearest I ever knew Has died and been entombed. I am sure it’s a dream that cannot be true, But I am so overgloomed By its persistence, that I would gladly Have quick death take me, Rather than longer think thus sadly; So wake me, wake me! It has lasted days, but minute and hour I expect to get aroused And find him as usual in the bower Where we so happily housed. Yet stays this nightmare too appalling, And like a web shakes me, And piteously I keep on calling, And no one wakes me! IN THE BRITISH MUSEUM “WHAT do you see in that time-touched stone, When nothing is there But ashen blankness, although you give it A rigid stare? “You look not quite as if you saw, But as if you heard, Parting your lips, and treading softly As mouse or bird. “It is only the base of a pillar, they’ll tell you, That came to us From a far old hill men used to name Areopagus.” —“I know no art, and I only view A stone from a wall, But I am thinking that stone has echoed The voice of Paul, “Paul as he stood and preached beside it Facing the crowd, A small gaunt figure with wasted features, Calling out loud “Words that in all their intimate accents Pattered upon That marble front, and were far reflected, And then were gone. “I’m a labouring man, and know but little, Or nothing at all; But I can’t help thinking that stone once echoed The voice of Paul.” IN THE SERVANTS’ QUARTERS “MAN, you too, aren’t you, one of these rough followers of the criminal? All hanging hereabout to gather how he’s going to bear Examination in the hall.” She flung disdainful glances on The shabby figure standing at the fire with others there, Who warmed them by its flare. “No indeed, my skipping maiden: I know nothing of the trial here, Or criminal, if so he be.—I chanced to come this way, And the fire shone out into the dawn, and morning airs are cold now; I, too, was drawn in part by charms I see before me play, That I see not every day.”