A face that seems the latest to reveal! 
     For she turns from it hastily, and tossed
     Irresolute steals shadow-like to where
     I stand; and wavering pale before me there,
     Her tears fall still as oak-leaves after frost. 
     She will not speak.  I will not ask.  We are
     League-sundered by the silent gulf between. 
     You burly lovers on the village green,
     Yours is a lower, and a happier star!

     XXIII

     ’Tis Christmas weather, and a country house
     Receives us:  rooms are full:  we can but get
     An attic-crib.  Such lovers will not fret
     At that, it is half-said.  The great carouse
     Knocks hard upon the midnight’s hollow door,
     But when I knock at hers, I see the pit. 
     Why did I come here in that dullard fit? 
     I enter, and lie couched upon the floor. 
     Passing, I caught the coverlet’s quick beat:-
     Come, Shame, burn to my soul! and Pride, and Pain —
     Foul demons that have tortured me, enchain! 
     Out in the freezing darkness the lambs bleat. 
     The small bird stiffens in the low starlight. 
     I know not how, but shuddering as I slept,
     I dreamed a banished angel to me crept: 
     My feet were nourished on her breasts all night.

     XXIV

     The misery is greater, as I live! 
     To know her flesh so pure, so keen her sense,
     That she does penance now for no offence,
     Save against Love.  The less can I forgive! 
     The less can I forgive, though I adore
     That cruel lovely pallor which surrounds
     Her footsteps; and the low vibrating sounds
     That come on me, as from a magic shore. 
     Low are they, but most subtle to find out
     The shrinking soul.  Madam, ’tis understood
     When women play upon their womanhood,
     It means, a Season gone.  And yet I doubt
     But I am duped.  That nun-like look waylays
     My fancy.  Oh!  I do but wait a sign! 
     Pluck out the eyes of pride! thy mouth to mine! 
     Never! though I die thirsting.  Go thy ways!

     XXV

     You like not that French novel?  Tell me why. 
     You think it quite unnatural.  Let us see. 
     The actors are, it seems, the usual three: 
     Husband, and wife, and lover.  She—­but fie! 
     In England we’ll not hear of it.  Edmond,
     The lover, her devout chagrin doth share;
     Blanc-mange and absinthe are his penitent fare,
     Till his pale aspect makes her over-fond: 
     So, to preclude fresh sin, he tries rosbif. 
     Meantime the husband is no more abused: 
     Auguste forgives her ere the tear is used. 
     Then hangeth all on one tremendous if:-
     If she will choose between them.  She does choose;
     And takes her husband, like a proper wife. 
     Unnatural?  My dear, these things are life: 
     And life, some think, is worthy of the Muse.