  Toward starless morning, when deep night had bowed On slumber’s pillow my unhappy head, Through the dim room it drifted like a cloud— And swayed in silence by my lonely bed. What had they done to you, that dumbly so You covered with your hands your quiet face— Dear, out of kindness, that I might not know What horror there had wrought its dark disgrace! It was those hands, too passionately, too well Loved, that betrayed you—O most piteous guest! And to my heart, in the intolerable Rage of despair, that shadow I had pressed, Mingling in a shrill cry our grief supreme— My sweet—my pretty! But, as I had drawn That anguish to my arms, they clasped a dream; |
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