And I with doubtful pause—averse
To let occasion drift away—
I answered—"If his case were worse
Than word can say,
"Time is a healer of sick hearts,
And women have been known to choose,
With purpose to allay their smarts,
And tend their bruise,
"These for themselves. Content to give,
In their own lavish love complete,
Taking for sole prerogative
Their tendance sweet.
"Such meeting in their diadem
Of crowning love's ethereal fire,
Himself he robs who robbeth them
Of their desire.
"Therefore the man who, dreaming, cried
Against his lot that even-song,
I judge him honest, and decide
That he was wrong."
"When I am judged, ah may my fate,"
He whispered, "in thy code be read!
Be thou both judge and advocate."
Then turned, he said—
"Fair weaver!" touching, while he spoke,
The woven crown, the weaving hand,
"And do you this decree revoke,
Or may it stand?
"This friend, you ever think her right—
She is not wrong, then?" Soft and low
The little trembling word took flight:
She answered, "No."
PRESENT.
A meadow where the grass was deep,
Rich, square, and golden to the view,
A belt of elms with level sweep
About it grew.