“Madam, forgive me!” said she,
Sorrow bent,
“A child—I soon shall bear him . . .
Yes—I meant
To tell you—that he won me ere he went.”
Then, as it were, within me
Something snapped,
As if my soul had largened:
Conscience-capped,
I saw myself the snarer—them the trapped.
“My hate dies, and I promise,
Grace-beguiled,”
I said, “to care for you, be
Reconciled;
And cherish, and take interest in the child.”
Without more words I pressed him
Through the door
Within which she stood, powerless
To say more,
And closed it on them, and downstairward bore.
“He joins his wife—my sister,”
I, below,
Remarked in going—lightly—
Even as though
All had come right, and we had arranged it so . . .
As I, my road retracing,
Left them free,
The night alone embracing
Childless me,
I held I had not stirred God wrothfully.
THE ROMAN ROAD
The Roman Road runs straight and bare
As the pale parting-line in hair
Across the heath. And thoughtful men
Contrast its days of Now and Then,
And delve, and measure, and compare;
Visioning on the vacant air
Helmed legionaries, who proudly rear
The Eagle, as they pace again
The Roman Road.
But no tall brass-helmed legionnaire
Haunts it for me. Uprises there
A mother’s form upon my ken,
Guiding my infant steps, as when
We walked that ancient thoroughfare,
The Roman Road.