No life could so be cleansed,—by wringing thence
The blood that warms the heart; no face made pure
By turning pale the blush of beauty cast
By shadows where sweet love goes in and out.
Love, love should never be a slave, but free.—
“Come, Edith!”—Then I question’d, Would she come?—
Nay, not to my life. Mine must go to hers.
But this, mine could not,—could do nothing there;—
And would not!—Whence then sprang my call to her?—
If not from reason, from my wish, forsooth.—