The law of your own righteousness, and keep The right of your own griefs to mourn themselves,-- To pity me twice fallen, from that, and this, From joy of place, and also right of wail, "I wail" being not for me--only "I sin." Look to it, O sweet Spirits! For was I not, At that last sunset seen in Paradise, When all the westering clouds flashed out in throngs Of sudden angel-faces, face by face, All hushed and solemn, as a thought of God Held them suspended,--was I not, that hour, The lady of the world, princess of life, Mistress of feast and favour? Could I touch A rose with my white hand, but it became Redder at once? Could I walk leisurely Along our swarded garden, but the grass Tracked me with greenness? Could I stand aside A moment underneath a cornel-tree, But all the leaves did tremble as alive With songs of fifty birds who were made glad Because I stood there? Could I turn to look With these twain eyes of mine, now weeping fast, Now good for only weeping,--upon man, Angel, or beast, or bird, but each rejoiced Because I looked on him? Alas, alas! And is not this much woe, to cry "alas!" Speaking of joy? And is not this more shame, To have made the woe myself, from all that joy? To have stretched my hand, and plucked it from the tree, And chosen it for fruit? Nay, is not this Still most despair,--to have halved that bitter fruit, And ruined, so, the sweetest friend I have, Turning the GREATEST to mine enemy? _Adam._ I will not hear thee speak so. Hearken, Spirits! Our God, who is the enemy of none But only of their sin, hath set your hope And my hope, in a promise, on this Head. Show reverence, then, and never bruise her more With unpermitted and extreme reproach,-- Lest, passionate in anguish, she fling down Beneath your trampling feet, God's gift to us Of sovranty by reason and freewill, Sinning against the province of the Soul To rule the soulless. Reverence her estate, And pass out from her presence with no words!