Susan. Whence had you this song, lady?
L. Mar. Out of the air;
From no one an it be not from the wind
That goes at noonday in the sycamore trees.
—When said the tardy page he would return?
Susan. By twelve, upon this very hour.
L. Mar. Look now,
The sand falls down the glass with even pace,
The shadows lie like yesterday’s. Nothing
Is wrong with the world. You are a part of it,—
I stand within a magic circle charm’d
From reach of anything, shut in from you,
Leagues from my needle, and this frame I touch,
Waiting till doomsday come—
[Knocking heard] The messenger!
Quick, I will wait you here, and hold my heart
Ready for death, or too much ravishment.
[Exeunt both Girls.]
How the little sand-hill slides and slides; how many
Red grains would drop while a man’s keen knife drawn
Across one’s heart let the red life out?
Susan. [returning] Lady!
L. Mar. I know it by your eyes. O do not fear
To tell all punctually: I am carved of stone.
BY THE WINDOW
Still deep into the West I gazed; the light
Clear, spiritual, tranquil as a bird
Wide-winged that soars on the smooth gale and sleeps,
Was it from sun far-set or moon unrisen?
Whether from moon, or sun, or angel’s face
It held my heart from motion, stayed my blood,
Betrayed each rising thought to quiet death
Along the blind charm’d way to nothingness,
Lull’d the last nerve that ached. It was a sky
Made for a man to waste his will upon,
To be received as wiser than all toil,
And much more fair. And what was strife of men?
And what was time?