_Adam._ To thee, the Spirit of the harmless earth, To thee, the Spirit of earth's harmless lives, Inferior creatures but still innocent, Be salutation from a guilty mouth Yet worthy of some audience and respect From you who are not guilty. If we have sinned, God hath rebuked us, who is over us To give rebuke or death, and if ye wail Because of any suffering from our sin, Ye who are under and not over us, Be satisfied with God, if not with us, And pass out from our presence in such peace As we have left you, to enjoy revenge Such as the heavens have made you. Verily, There must be strife between us, large as sin. _Eve._ No strife, mine Adam! Let us not stand high Upon the wrong we did to reach disdain, Who rather should be humbler evermore Since self-made sadder. Adam! shall I speak-- I who spake once to such a bitter end-- Shall I speak humbly now who once was proud? I, schooled by sin to more humility Than thou hast, O mine Adam, O my king-- _My_ king, if not the world's? _Adam._ Speak as thou wilt. _Eve._ Thus, then--my hand in thine-- ... Sweet, dreadful Spirits! I pray you humbly in the name of God, Not to say of these tears, which are impure-- Grant me such pardoning grace as can go forth From clean volitions toward a spotted will, From the wronged to the wronger, this and no more! I do not ask more. I am 'ware, indeed, That absolute pardon is impossible From you to me, by reason of my sin,-- And that I cannot evermore, as once, With worthy acceptation of pure joy, Behold the trances of the holy hills Beneath the leaning stars, or watch the vales Dew-pallid with their morning ecstasy,-- Or hear the winds make pastoral peace between Two grassy uplands,--and the river-wells Work out their bubbling mysteries underground,-- And all the birds sing, till for joy of song They lift their trembling wings as if to heave The too-much weight of music from their heart And float it up the æther. I am 'ware That these things I can no more apprehend With a pure organ into a full delight,-- The sense of beauty and of melody Being no more aided in me by the sense Of personal adjustment to those heights Of what I see well-formed or hear well-tuned, But rather coupled darkly and made ashamed By my percipiency of sin and fall In melancholy of humiliant thoughts. But, oh! fair, dreadful Spirits--albeit this Your accusation must confront my soul, And your pathetic utterance and full gaze Must evermore subdue me,--be content! Conquer me gently--as if pitying me, Not to say loving! let my tears fall thick As watering dews of Eden, unreproached; And when your tongues reprove me, make me smooth, Not ruffled--smooth and still with your reproof, And peradventure better while more sad! For look to it, sweet Spirits, look well to it, It will not be amiss in you who kept