Like peals of airy bells outworn Faint laughter died above her head In gusts of broken music borne: “They keep the Carnival,” she said. Her hungry heart devoured the town: “Heaven save me by a miracle! Unless God sends an angel down, Thither I go though it were Hell.” She dug her nails deep in her breast, Sobbed, shrieked, and straight withdrew the bar: A fledgling flying from the nest, A pale moth rushing to a star. Fillet and veil in strips she tore; Her golden tresses floated wide; The ring and bracelet that she wore As Christ’s betrothed, she cast aside. “Life’s dearest meaning I shall probe; Lo! I shall taste of love at last! Away!” She doffed her outer robe, And sent it sailing down the blast. Her body seemed to warm the wind; With bleeding feet o’er ice she ran: “I leave the righteous God behind; I go to worship sinful man.” She reached the sounding city’s gate; No question did the warder ask: He passed her in: “Welcome, wild mate!” He thought her some fantastic mask. Half-naked through the town she went; Each footstep left a bloody mark; Crowds followed her with looks intent; Her bright eyes made the torches dark. Alone and watching in the street There stood a grave youth nobly dressed; To him she knelt and kissed his feet; Her face her great desire confessed. Straight to his house the nun he led: “Strange lady, what would you with me? “Your love, your love, sweet lord,” she said “I bring you my virginity.” He healed her bosom with a kiss; She gave him all her passion’s hoard; And sobbed and murmured ever, “This Is life’s great meaning, dear, my lord. “I care not for my broken vow, Though God should come in thunder soon I am sister to the mountains now, And sister to the sun and moon.” Through all the towns of Belmarie, She made a progress like a queen. “She is,” they said, “whate’er she be, The strangest woman ever seen. “From fairyland she must have come, Or else she is a mermaiden.” Some said she was a ghoul, and some A heathen goddess born again. But soon her fire to ashes burned; Her beauty changed to haggardness; Her golden hair to silver turned; The hour came of her last caress. At midnight from her lonely bed She rose, and said: “I have had my will.” The old ragged robe she donned, and fled Back to the convent on the hill. Half-naked as she went before, She hurried to the city wall, Unnoticed in the rush and roar And splendour of the Carnival. No question did the warder ask: Her ragged robe, her shrunken limb, Her dreadful eyes! “It is no mask; It is a she-wolf, gaunt and grim!”