"See, I am old, and all my heart is gray. They say the dead are aye forgot-- There, there, my sweet! I whisper, leaning low, That all these women hear it not. "Deep in the darkness there, didst think on me? High in the heavens, have ye been true? Since I was young, and since you called me fair, I never loved a man but you. And here, my boy, you lie, so safe, so still"-- But there she hushed; and in the dim, Cool morning, timid as a bride, but calm As a glad mother, gathered him Unto her heart. And all the people then, Women and men, and children too, Crept back, and back, and back, and on, Still as the morning shadows do. And left them in the lifting dawn--they two, On her sad breast, his shining head Stirred softly, as were he the living one, And she had been the moveless dead. And yet we crept on, back, and back, and on. The distance widened like the sky, Between our little restlessness, And Love so godlike that it could not die. II. VITTORIA. Wise was the word the wise man spake, who said, "Angelo was the only man to whom God gave Four souls,"--the soul of sculpture and of song, Of architecture and of art; these all. For so God loved him, as if he were His only child, and grouped about those brows Ideals of Himself--not angels mild As those that flit and beckon other lives, But cherubim and seraphim; tall, strong, Unsleeping, terrible; with wings across Their mighty feet; and eyes--if we would look Upon their blazing eyes, these too are hid-- Some angels are all wings! Oh, shine and fly! Were ye not angels, ye would strike us blind. And yet they did not, could not dazzle her-- That one sweet woman unto whom he bent As pliant as the quarried marble turned To life immortal in his own great hand. Steadfast, Vittoria looked on Angelo. She lifted lonely eyes. The years trod slow. Fourfold the reverence which he gave to her, Fourfold the awful tenderness, fourfold The loyalty, the trust. And oh, fourfold The comfort, beyond all power of comforting, Whereby a lesser man may heal the hurt Of widowhood! Pescara had one soul-- A little one; and it was stained. And he-- It too, perhaps (God knows!)--was dead. The dead are God's. Vittoria had one heart. The woman gave it, and the woman gives Once. Angelo was too late. And one who dared To shed a tear for him, has dropped it here. NEW NEIGHBORS. Within the window's scant recess, Behind a pink geranium flower, She sits and sews, and sews and sits, From patient hour to patient hour. As woman-like as marble is, Or as a lovely death might be-- A marble death condemned to make A feint at life perpetually. Wondering, I watch to pity her; Wandering, I go my restless ways; Content, I think the untamed thoughts Of free and solitary days,