Lady S. I roamed the forest day and night and fixed My fancy in the nebula at first. Profound relief it was to breathe no more The breath of man and woman, love and hate, Desire, despair, Heaven, Hell, and God, and Sin: To be pure soullessness awaiting chance, My cousin told me of, when all the orbs That hang about the Sun, and me and mine Shall fall into its bosom, or other radiant Passion of Matter impregnate space anew. But life was not so easily rebuked: I had that letter; and through the nebula, As potent rays will pierce substantial things, It seared itself upon my heart and brain. My sin tormented me; and everywhere Nothing but Sin I saw: concupiscence Of insect, bird, and beast: bloodstained besides; Not only foxes, weasels, falcons, rats, But blackbirds, thrushes, robins drenched with blood Of helpless prey and raving drunken songs. In candelabra where the scented oil Of honeysuckle burned, I found a crowd Of shameless couples, male and female, paired-- A brothel of midges, Warwick; in tender bells Of chaste convolvuluses spider-wolves Attacked unhappy bees; and once I saw A cheerful skylark chewing a grasshopper That wriggled like a man being sawn asunder. I thought of business, policy, pleasure, war, Where folk devour each other; and in a flash I understood that it must still be so: No man or woman can ever lift a foot Except to tread and splash in someone's heart. And out of that my dazzling message sprang, That Life is the Sin of the Universe. You see? _We_ do not sin; we _are_ Sin, Warwick. Yes! It makes the whole world beautiful, I think. The Sin is great and splendid, deep and high, Exquisite Sin: physicians feel like this, Studying a perfect fever, or some disease It palsies one to think of. Life is Sin, The wonderful wild Sin of the Universe.-- [Rises, and walks to the door and back.] Where was I, Warwick? Groom. [Rises] In the forest, Martha. Why did you leave it? Lady S. For a purpose, high And tender. I took upon myself the Sin Of the Universe as far as the Universe has sinned In me; repented of it, and straightway came To Tristram, intending to confess and be Forgiven. First I went home, and dressed myself Once more in these, the wrappage of my sin, My special sin, my passionate, wilful sin:-- We are the sin of the Universe; but Sin Itself can sin? Perhaps; I cannot tell. Groom. You kept these? Lady S. In a wardrobe, fresh as spring With yearly lavender. A fitting garb Of penitence it seemed; a punishment, A pang, indeed, to show myself to him, My husband, in the vesture of my love! Groom. And did you not? Lady S. No, Warwick, for I met His mistress at the door, and gentleness Became malignity. Groom. But afterwards? What end did you propose?