The Lady.
Dark
And heavy mine with love.
The Maiden.
You talk of death
With frequent phrase, as though a little thing,
A matter merely of the will and breath,
It were to face the judgment, and the King
Who has not summoned you. Your flippant tongue
Rolls out its offers as a song is sung,
And, both mean nothing; for the chance to die
For one we love, that glorious gift, comes now
But rarely in this life that you and I
Must bear our part in. Thus, no empty vow
Do I repeat; and yet, I surely know,
At duty’s call right calmly could I go
Up the red scaffold’s stairs.
The Lady.
I well believe
Thee, steadfast maiden-voice. Nay, I conceive
My love, thy duty, are alike—the same
Self-sacrifice under a various name
According to our natures. I would yield,
And thou refuse to yield, from the same love;
I’d have him happy here, and thou—above.
For thus we look at life.
The book is sealed
That holds our fate—we may not look within;
But this I know, that, be it deadly sin
Or highest good, he loves me!
The Maiden.
There are loves—
And loves!
The Lady.