And bear this death,” she said, “nor die, the more
To meet him,—and that woman gone before!”
Thus with herself she writhed, while midnight gloomed,
As lone as any outcast of us all;
And once, without a purpose, as the doomed
Stare round and count the shadows on the wall,
Unclasped a poet’s book which near her lay,
And turned its pages in that witless way,
And read the song, some wise, sad man had made,
With bitter frost about his doubting heart.