He snatched the pistol up, He pressed it to his ear; But a sudden sound broke in, And his skin was raw with fear. He took the hunting knife, He tried to raise the blade; It glimmered cold and white, And he was sore afraid. He poured the potion out, But it was thick and brown; His throat was sealed against it, And he could not drain it down. He looked to her for help, And when he looked—behold! His love was there before him As in the days of old. He saw the drooping head, He saw the gentle eyes; He saw the same shy grace of hers He had been wont to prize. She pointed and she smiled, And lo! he was aware Of a half-lit bedroom chamber And a silent figure there. A silent figure lying A-sprawl upon a bed, With a silver-mounted pistol Still clotted to his head. And as he downward gazed, Her voice came full and clear, The homely tender voice Which he had loved to hear: ‘The key is very certain, The door is sealed to none. You did it, oh, my darling! And you never knew it done. ‘When the net was broken, You thought you felt its mesh; You carried to the spirit The troubles of the flesh. ‘And are you trembling still, dear? Then let me take your hand; And I will lead you outward To a sweet and restful land. ‘You know how once in London I put my griefs on you; But I can carry yours now— Most sweet it is to do! ‘Most sweet it is to do, love, And very sweet to plan How I, the helpless woman, Can help the helpful man. ‘But let me see you smiling With the smile I know so well; Forget the world of shadows, And the empty broken shell. ‘It is the worn-out garment In which you tore a rent; You tossed it down, and carelessly Upon your way you went. ‘It is not _you_, my sweetheart, For you are here with me. That frame was but the promise of The thing that was to be— ‘A tuning of the choir Ere the harmonies begin; And yet it is the image Of the subtle thing within. ‘There’s not a trick of body, There’s not a trait of mind, But you bring it over with you, Ethereal, refined, ‘But still the same; for surely If we alter as we die, You would be you no longer, And I would not be I. ‘I might be an angel, But not the girl you knew; You might be immaculate, But that would not be you. ‘And now I see you smiling, So, darling, take my hand; And I will lead you outward To a sweet and pleasant land, ‘Where thought is clear and nimble, Where life is pure and fresh, Where the soul comes back rejoicing From the mud-bath of the flesh ‘But still that soul is human, With human ways, and so I love my love in spirit, As I loved him long ago.’