A long, long time he gazed at that fair place, So well remembered from of old; he sighed. "I will go down and look upon her face, See her again, whatever may betide. Hell is my future; I shall soon have died, But I will take to hell one memory more; She shall not see nor know; I shall be gone before; "Before they turn the dogs upon me, even. I do not mean to speak; but only see. Even the devil gets a peep at heaven; One peep at her shall come to hell with me; One peep at her, no matter what may be." He crossed the stile and hurried down the slope. Remembered trees and hedges gave a zest to hope. * * * * * A low brick wall with privet shrubs beyond Ringed in The Roughs upon the side he neared. Eastward some bramble bushes cloaked the pond; Westward was barley-stubble not yet cleared. He thrust aside the privet boughs and peered. The drooping fir trees let their darkness trail Black like a pirate’s masts bound under easy sail. The garden with its autumn flowers was there; Few that his wayward memory linked with her. Summer had burnt the summer flowers bare, But honey-hunting bees still made a stir. Sprigs were still bluish on the lavender, And bluish daisies budded, bright flies poised; The wren upon the tree-stump carolled cheery-voiced. He could not see her there. Windows were wide, Late wasps were cruising, and the curtains shook. Smoke, like the house’s breathing, floated, sighed; Among the trembling firs strange ways it took. But still no Mary’s presence blessed his look; The house was still as if deserted, hushed. Faint fragrance hung about it as if herbs were crushed. Fragrance that gave his memory’s guard a hint Of times long past, of reapers in the corn, Bruising with heavy boots the stalks of mint, When first the berry reddens on the thorn. Memories of her that fragrance brought. Forlorn That vigil of the watching outcast grew; He crept towards the kitchen, sheltered by a yew. The windows of the kitchen opened wide. Again the fragrance came; a woman spoke; Old Mrs. Occleve talked to one inside. A smell of cooking filled a gust of smoke. Then fragrance once again, for herbs were broke; Pourri was being made; the listener heard Things lifted and laid down, bruised into sweetness, stirred. While an old woman made remarks to one Who was not the beloved: Michael learned That Roger’s wife at Upton had a son, And that the red geraniums should be turned; A hen was missing, and a rick was burned; Our Lord commanded patience; here it broke; The window closed, it made the kitchen chimney smoke. Steps clacked on flagstones to the outer door; A dairy-maid, whom he remembered well, Lined, now, with age, and grayer than before, Rang a cracked cow-bell for the dinner-bell. He saw the dining-room; he could not tell If Mary were within: inly he knew That she was coming now, that she would be in blue,