And why he still survived the rest,
Why still he had the strength to stir,
Why still he stood like gnarléd oak
That buffets storm and tempest stroke,
One cannot say, save but for her,
That helpless being on his breast;
At rest; that would not let him rest.
She did not speak, she did not stir;
In rippled currents over her
Her black, abundant hair pour'd down