How old are you, my rose? What! almost twelve? Almost a woman! scarcely more than that Was your fair mother when she bore her bud; And scarcely more was I when, long years since, I left my father's house, a bride in May. You know the house, beside St. Andrea's church, Gloomy and rich, which stands and seems to frown On the Mercato, humming at its base. That was my play-place ever as a child; And with me used to play a kinsman's son, Antonio Rondinelli. Ah, dear days! Two happy things we were, with none to chide, Or hint that life was anything but play. Sudden the play-time ended. All at once "You must wed," they told me. "What is wed?" I asked; but with the word I bent my brow, Let them put on the garland, smiled to see The glancing jewels tied about my neck; And so, half-pleased, half-puzzled, was led forth By my grave husband, older than my sire. O the long years that followed! It would seem That the sun never shone in all those years, Or only with a sudden, troubled glint Flashed on Antonio's curls, as he went by Doffing his cap, with eyes of wistful love Raised to my face--my conscious, woeful face. Were we so much to blame? Our lives had twined Together, none forbidding, for so long. They let our childish fingers drop the seed, Unhindered, which should ripen to tall grain; They let the firm, small roots tangle and grow, Then rent them, careless that it hurt the plant. I loved Antonio, and he loved me. Life was all shadow, but it was not sin! I loved Antonio; but I kept me pure, Not for my husband's sake, but for the sake Of him, my first-born child, my little child, Mine for a few short weeks, whose touch, whose look Thrilled all my soul and thrills it to this day. I loved: but, hear me swear, I kept me pure! It was hard To sit in darkness while the rest had light, To move to discords when the rest had song, To be so young and never to have lived. I bore, as women bear, until one day Soul said to flesh, "This I endure no more," And with the word uprose, tore clay apart, And what was blank before grew blanker still. It was a fever, so the leeches said. I had been dead so long, I did not know The difference or heed. Oil on my breast, The garments of the grave about me wrapped, They bore me forth and laid me in the tomb.