Thine angel glory sinks Down from me, down from me-- My beauty falls, methinks, Down from thee, down from thee! O my light-bearer, O my path-preparer, Gone from me, gone from me! Ah, ah, Heosphoros! I cannot kindle underneath the brow Of this new angel here, who is not thou. All things are altered since that time ago,-- And if I shine at eve, I shall not know. I am strange--I am slow. Ah, ah, Heosphoros! Henceforward, human eyes of lovers be The only sweetest sight that I shall see, With tears between the looks raised up to me. Ah, ah! When, having wept all night, at break of day Above the folded hills they shall survey My light, a little trembling, in the grey. Ah, ah! And gazing on me, such shall comprehend, Through all my piteous pomp at morn or even And melancholy leaning out of heaven, That love, their own divine, may change or end, That love may close in loss! Ah, ah, Heosphoros! * * * * * SCENE.--_Farther on. A wild open country seen vaguely in the approaching night._ _Adam._ How doth the wide and melancholy earth Gather her hills around us, grey and ghast, And stare with blank significance of loss Right in our faces! Is the wind up? _Eve._ Nay. _Adam._ And yet the cedars and the junipers Rock slowly through the mist, without a sound, And shapes which have no certainty of shape Drift duskly in and out between the pines, And loom along the edges of the hills, And lie flat, curdling in the open ground-- Shadows without a body, which contract And lengthen as we gaze on them. _Eve._ O life Which is not man's nor angel's! What is this? _Adam._ No cause for fear. The circle of God's life Contains all life beside. _Eve._ I think the earth Is crazed with curse, and wanders from the sense Of those first laws affixed to form and space Or ever she knew sin. _Adam._ We will not fear; We were brave sinning. _Eve._ Yea, I plucked the fruit With eyes upturned to heaven and seeing there Our god-thrones, as the tempter said,--not GOD. My heart, which beat then, sinks. The sun hath sunk Out of sight with our Eden. _Adam._ Night is near. _Eve._ And God's curse, nearest. Let us travel back And stand within the sword-glare till we die, Believing it is better to meet death Than suffer desolation. _Adam._ Nay, beloved! We must not pluck death from the Maker's hand, As erst we plucked the apple: we must wait Until he gives death as he gave us life, Nor murmur faintly o'er the primal gift Because we spoilt its sweetness with our sin. _Eve._ Ah, ah! dost thou discern what I behold?