Only one face is there which fills my soul With some strong healing effluence, a grace Of twilight reveries when all things seem Merged in the peace of God, and we become Part of the clear, intense, eternal flame Whose motion is like music, and we lose Sense of ourselves in drawing close to God. Love, that has cleansed the heart of pettiness, Shows me the face of Merow in my dreams.” And, as she spoke, the face of Brunhild lit With radiance from that old love, her face Softened, and age was as a grace to her. “Yea, I loved Sigebert; but all that love Was but my childish wonder at the ways Of men; and I clung close unto his strength. Our friendship might have ripened slow like wine, To be a cheer and comfort to our age, Mellow with wisdom, tranquil, tolerant; Yet is it but a shadow. Happiness Is not the nurture of a steadfast soul; But sorrow binds us with the bonds of love. Love is a suffering, a sacrifice; A hand put out toward all human pain; A fellowship, through danger and the dark: So was the love that Merow taught to me. “The days of my delight had passed like wind Over the water, and had died away; My lutanists and falconers were far; And I sat lonely and a prisoner, With Praetextatus, guarded carefully, When Merow came to Rouen with a troop Of young, light-hearted warriors, the close Friends of his venturous youth and confidence. How could he look on me with gentle eyes Who had pursued his people like a hawk? Yet then his mind turned back to Andovere, Whom convent walls enclosed, and Fredegonde Seemed now so hateful in his sight, he found Companionship with me in hating her. He, with his friends, all day would hunt the boar, And the wild aurochs, but at night would sit Close to the blazing logs, and there I served The warm, spiced ale to them, or ruddy wine From Macon, till I moved them, every one, So that their eyes grew bright at my approach And faded when I left them; thus it was. But I and Merow had not yet drawn close To one another; for when one advanced The other tarried, so we vexed ourselves With sudden heats, and sudden coldnesses, Making each other sensitive and quick In our resentment. Then one evening There came a messenger from Fredegonde To Merow, and he left our company, So that I saw him not again that night; And in the morning back to Fredegonde Returned the messenger, but Merow went Alone, and brooded much in solitude, Nor heeded me, nor sought to speak with me, As he was wont to on the least pretence. “One morning to my room there came a page Of Merow’s, who, when I would talk to him At our chance meetings, blushed and hung his head, But, when I heeded not his presence, gazed Long on my face and fed his dreamings there.