This is the place, this house beside the sea; This was the setting where they played their parts. Two men, who knew them all, have talked to me: Beauty she had, and all had passionate hearts. I write this in the window where she sat. Two fields, all green with summer, lie below; Then the grey sea, at thought, cloud-coloured, flat, Wind-dappled from the glen, the tide at flow. Her portrait and her husband’s hang together One on each side the fire; it is close; The tree-tops toss, it is a change of weather. They were most lovely and unhappy, those, That married pair and he who loved too well; This was the door by which they entered hell. This is a drawing of her as a child, This is she wed; the faces are the same, Only the beauty of the babe is wild, The woman’s beauty has been broken tame. Witty, bright, gentle, earnest, with great eyes, Dark hair in heaps, pure colour, lips that smile; Beauty that is more wisdom than the wise Lived in this woman for a little while. Dressed in that beauty that our mothers wore (So touching now), she looks out of the frame With stag-like eyes, that wept till they were sore Many’s the time, till she was broken tame. Witty, bright, gentle, earnest, even so, Destiny calls and spirits come and go. This is her husband in his youth; and this Is he in manhood; this is he in age. There is a devil in those eyes of his, A glittering devil, restless in his cage. A grand man, with a beauty and a pride, A manner and a power and a fire, With beaks of vultures eating at his side, The great brain mad with unfulfilled desire. “With grand ideas,” they say; tall, wicked, proud, Cold, cruel, bitter, clever, dainty, skilled; Splendid to see, a head above the crowd; Splendid with every strength, yet unfulfilled. Cutting himself (and all those near) with hate From that sharp mind which should have shaped a state. And many years ago I saw the third Bowed in old age and mad with misery; Mad with the bright eyes of the eagle-bird, Burning his heart at fires of memory. He stood behind a chair, and bent and muttered; Grand still, grey, sunburnt, bright with mad eyes brown, Burning, though dying, like a torch that guttered, That once had lit Queen Helen through the town. I only saw him once: I saw him go Leaning uphill his body to the rain, Too good a man for life to punish so, Theirs were the pride and passion, his the pain. His old coat flapped; the little children turned To see him pass, that passionate age that burned.