While I clung tighter to his heart and pressed him,
And did not fear him, though my heart was broken,
But kissed his poor stained hands, and cried, and blessed him!
Then, Nan, the dreadful daylight, coming cold
With sound of falling rain—
When I could see his face, and it looked old,
Like the pinched face of one that dies in pain;
Well, though we heard folk stirring in the sun,
We never thought to hide away or run,
Until we heard those voices in the street,