Then Life came, and with lifted sword Laid on our souls his dread command; “Say your farewells, part hand from hand, You the adorer, and adored. Duty is seeking you! And Grief Would have her child return and see The changeless halls of Misery, And the bare board and darkened hearth.” I reeled with anguish as the earth Sank from my feet. For oh the end Seemed far as death! And when it came It was my hope, my soul’s desire To part as friend may part from friend, And that you’d keep alive my name Bright as an altar’s quenchless fire. It could not be! How could it be? I was not truth! I was not true-- I kept my soul’s real self from you. Then I bethought me: “Since his earth Is Autumn-stricken with a doubt That I am worth not his love’s worth, Were it no better he should know Disloyalty made definite By a suspected past re-knit, And see our love a play played out, Than to live through the soft decline Of our bright day to solemn eve-- A sunset of remembrance--where He walks devoured by love and hate-- Love for the love I strove to give, Hate for a thought intuitive: Some newer love her heart hath won Or some first love hath won her back. No, to my faith, he says, “I’ll cleave, Believing that I can’t believe.” “Slow death to love! Exquisite rack!” Ah me! I had not made this fate-- The warp was stretched, the woof was spun, The roof-tree laid long years before You entered at the unbolted door. “Then what is best? What can be done? To give him back his pride and strength, And even his peace of mind at length? Better a quick blow! Better blood! To brace the soul and poise the brain And make him what he was again.” Just then the Shadow near me stood Who stepped aside for you. He took With unabated comradeship My hand in his. That closed our book. I woke to hear the water drip Blown out of heavens low and dim. He brushed my tears off with his hand-- Nor clouds nor memory trouble him. And my one thought of you was this: I’ve cured you with this sacrifice-- The hate has come to you I planned. The hate that may take form in words, For scorn like this: “I found a seam “Right at the contact of our love. “No recreative fire can warm “And fuse fine gold with lifeless dross, “Or worthy metal make thereof.” This killed your love and wrecked your dream! This is my soul’s confession. Wait, A trickster in a hooded form Stands by as we begin to pull The weaving beam, and throws between The warp and woof a ball of wool. It catches and is woven in The colors, spoils the conscious blend, Changes the pattern to the end. Whatever it be I call it fate. In misery or in happiness We must live on awhile no less. Shall we be master weavers, climb,