As I came through the desert thus it was, As I came through the desert: From the right A shape came slowly with a ruddy light; A woman with a red lamp in her hand, Bareheaded and barefooted on that strand; 65 O desolation moving with such grace! O anguish with such beauty in thy face! I fell as on my bier, Hope travailed with such fear. As I came through the desert thus it was, 70 As I came through the desert: I was twain, Two selves distinct that cannot join again; One stood apart and knew but could not stir, And watched the other stark in swoon and her; And she came on, and never turned aside, 75 Between such sun and moon and roaring tide: And as she came more near My soul grew mad with fear. As I came through the desert thus it was, As I came through the desert: Hell is mild 80 And piteous matched with that accursed wild; A large black sign was on her breast that bowed, A broad black band ran down her snow-white shroud; That lamp she held was her own burning heart, Whose blood-drops trickled step by step apart: 85 The mystery was clear; Mad rage had swallowed fear. As I came through the desert thus it was, As I came through the desert: By the sea She knelt and bent above that senseless me; 90 Those lamp-drops fell upon my white brow there, She tried to cleanse them with her tears and hair; She murmured words of pity, love, and woe, Shee heeded not the level rushing flow: And mad with rage and fear, 95 I stood stonebound so near. As I came through the desert thus it was, As I came through the desert: When the tide Swept up to her there kneeling by my side, She clasped that corpse-like me, and they were borne 100 Away, and this vile me was left forlorn; I know the whole sea cannot quench that heart, Or cleanse that brow, or wash those two apart: They love; their doom is drear, Yet they nor hope nor fear; 105 But I, what do I here? V How he arrives there none can clearly know; Athwart the mountains and immense wild tracts, Or flung a waif upon that vast sea-flow, Or down the river's boiling cataracts: To reach it is as dying fever-stricken 5 To leave it, slow faint birth intense pangs quicken; And memory swoons in both the tragic acts. But being there one feels a citizen; Escape seems hopeless to the heart forlorn: Can Death-in-Life be brought to life again? 10 And yet release does come; there comes a morn When he awakes from slumbering so sweetly That all the world is changed for him completely, And he is verily as if new-born.