’The key is very certain,
   The door is sealed to none. 
You did it, oh, my darling! 
   And you never knew it done.

’When the net was broken,
   You thought you felt its mesh;
You carried to the spirit
   The troubles of the flesh.

’And are you trembling still, dear? 
   Then let me take your hand;
And I will lead you outward
   To a sweet and restful land.

’You know how once in London
   I put my griefs on you;
But I can carry yours now —
   Most sweet it is to do!

’Most sweet it is to do, love,
   And very sweet to plan
How I, the helpless woman,
   Can help the helpful man.

’But let me see you smiling
   With the smile I know so well;
Forget the world of shadows,
   And the empty broken shell.

’It is the worn-out garment
   In which you tore a rent;
You tossed it down, and carelessly
   Upon your way you went.

’It is not you, my sweetheart,
   For you are here with me. 
That frame was but the promise of
   The thing that was to be —

’A tuning of the choir
   Ere the harmonies begin;
And yet it is the image
   Of the subtle thing within.

’There’s not a trick of body,
   There’s not a trait of mind,
But you bring it over with you,
   Ethereal, refined,

’But still the same; for surely
   If we alter as we die,
You would be you no longer,
   And I would not be I.

’I might be an angel,
   But not the girl you knew;
You might be immaculate,
   But that would not be you.

’And now I see you smiling,
   So, darling, take my hand;
And I will lead you outward
   To a sweet and pleasant land,

’Where thought is clear and nimble,
   Where life is pure and fresh,
Where the soul comes back rejoicing
   From the mud-bath of the flesh

’But still that soul is human,
   With human ways, and so
I love my love in spirit,
   As I loved him long ago.’

So with hands together
   And fingers twining tight,
The two dead lovers drifted
   In the golden morning light.

But a grey-haired man was lying
   Beneath them on a bed,
With a silver-mounted pistol
   Still clotted to his head.

THE FRANKLIN’S MAID (From ‘The White Company’)

The franklin he hath gone to roam,
The franklin’s maid she bides at home;
But she is cold, and coy, and staid,
And who may win the franklin’s maid?

There came a knight of high renown
In bassinet and ciclatoun;
On bended knee full long he prayed —
He might not win the franklin’s maid.

There came a squire so debonair,
His dress was rich, his words were fair. 
He sweetly sang, he deftly played —
He could not win the franklin’s maid.