“‘Just so.—And here he housed us,
In this nook,
Where Love like balm has drowsed us:
Robin, rook,
Our chief familiars, next to string and book.
“‘Our days here, peace-enshrouded,
Followed strange
The old stage-joyance, crowded,
Rich in range;
But never did my soul desire a change,
“‘Till now, when far uncertain
Lips of yore
Call, call me to the curtain,
There once more,
But once, to tread the boards I trod before.
“‘A night—the last and single
Ere I die—
To face the lights, to mingle
As did I
Once in the game, and rivet every eye!’
“Such was his wish. He feared it,
Feared it though
Rare memories endeared it.
I, also,
Feared it still more; its outcome who could know?
“‘Alas, my Love,’ said I then,
‘Since it be
A wish so mastering, why, then,
E’en go ye!—
Despite your pledge to father and to me . . . ’
“’Twas fixed; no more was spoken
Thereupon;
Our silences were broken
Only on
The petty items of his needs were gone.
“Farewell he bade me, pleading
That it meant
So little, thus conceding
To his bent;
And then, as one constrained to go, he went.
“Thwart thoughts I let deride me,
As, ’twere vain
To hope him back beside me
Ever again:
Could one plunge make a waxing passion wane?
“I thought, ‘Some wild stage-woman,
Honour-wrecked . . . ’
But no: it was inhuman
To suspect;
Though little cheer could my lone heart affect!