III.
By balustrade and corridor
That lead him to his lady's bower,
He stands before that crape-draped frame—
Its hidden face of beauteous shame—
And holds aloft in his shaking hand
The glimmering lamp, nor can withstand
The fierce desire to feed his eye
With that fair-painted treachery.
He lifts the crape, he peers below—
The fire of wrath upon his brow;
He lets it fall—he lifts again,
To feed on the pleasure of his pain,
And gazes without stint or measure
To gloat on the pain that is his pleasure;
He turns the picture upon its face,
And reads the curse of his broken peace.
He turns the picture round again,
Then away to toss in his bed of pain.