Deep in the wind-torn wood,
I met him!... Dead he lies beneath
Your trysting oak. I clenched my teeth
And rode. My wound scarce let me breathe,
That filled my eyes with blood.
And here I am. The blood may blind
My eyesight still!... but I will find
Thee through some inner eye!
For God—He hath this thing in care!—
Yea! I will kiss again thy hair,