“I’ll go, for it would be a scurvy thing To spoil her marriage, and besides, she cares For that half-priest she married with the ring. Small joy for me in seeing how she wears, Or seeing what he takes and what she shares. That beauty and those ways: she had such ways, There in the daffodils in those old April days. So with an impulse of good will he turned, Leaving that place of daffodils; the road Was paven sharp with memories which burned; He trod them strongly under as he strode. At the Green Turning’s forge the furnace glowed; Red dithying sparks flew from the crumpled soft Fold from the fire’s heart; down clanged the hammers oft. That was a bitter place to pass, for there Mary and he had often, often stayed To watch the horseshoe growing in the glare. It was a tryst in childhood when they strayed. There was a stile beside the forge; he laid His elbows on it, leaning, looking down. The river-valley stretched with great trees turning brown. Infinite, too, because it reached the sky, And distant spires arose and distant smoke; The whiteness on the blue went stilly by; Only the clinking forge the stillness broke. Ryemeadows brook was there; The Roughs, the oak Where the White Woman walked; the black firs showed Around the Occleve homestead, Mary’s new abode. A long, long time he gazed at that fair place, So well remembered from of old; he sighed. “I will go down and look upon her face, See her again, whatever may betide. Hell is my future; I shall soon have died, But I will take to hell one memory more; She shall not see nor know; I shall be gone before; “Before they turn the dogs upon me, even. I do not mean to speak; but only see. Even the devil gets a peep at heaven; One peep at her shall come to hell with me; One peep at her, no matter what may be.” He crossed the stile and hurried down the slope. Remembered trees and hedges gave a zest to hope. * * * * * A low brick wall with privet shrubs beyond Ringed in The Roughs upon the side he neared; Eastward some bramble bushes cloaked the pond; Westward was barley-stubble not yet cleared. He thrust aside the privet boughs and peered. The drooping fir trees let their darkness trail Black like a pirate’s masts bound under easy sail. The garden with its autumn flowers was there; Few that his wayward memory linked with her. Summer had burnt the summer flowers bare, But honey-hunting bees still made a stir. Sprigs were still bluish on the lavender, And bluish daisies budded, bright flies poised; The wren upon the tree-stump carolled cheery-voiced.