“And Canon Conti now away a month,
“And Canon Crispi sour because, forsooth,
“You let him sulk in stall and bear the brunt
“Of the octave. … Well, Sir, ’tis important!”
“Hearken, I have to start for Rome this night.
“No word, lest Crispi overboil and burst!
“Provide me with a laic dress! Throw dust (1120)
“I’ the Canon’s eye, stop his tongue’s scandal so!
“See there’s a sword in case of accident.”
I knew the knave, the knave knew me.
Through each familiar hindrance of the day
Did I make steadily for its hour and end,—
Felt time’s old barrier-growth of right and fit
Give way through all its twines and let me go;
Use and wont recognised the excepted man,
Let speed the special service,—and I sped (1130)
Till, at the dead between midnight and morn,
There was I at the goal, before the gate,
With a tune in the ears, low leading up to loud,
A light in the eyes, faint that would soon be flare,
Ever some spiritual witness new and new
In faster frequence, crowding solitude
To watch the way o’ the warfare,—till, at last,
When the ecstatic minute must bring birth,
Began a whiteness in the distance, waxed
Whiter and whiter, near grew and more near, (1140)
Till it was she: there did Pompilia come:
The white I saw shine through her was her soul’s,
Certainly, for the body was one black,
Black from head down to foot. She did not speak,
Glided into the carriage,—so a cloud
Gathers the moon up. “By San Spirito,
“To Rome, as if the road burned underneath!
“Reach Rome, then hold my head in pledge, I pay
“The run and the risk to heart’s content!” Just that,
I said,—then, in another tick of time, (1150)
Sprang, was beside her, she and I alone.
Through day and night and day again to night
Once more, and to last dreadful dawn of all.
Sirs, how should I lie quiet in my grave
Unless you suffer me wring, drop by drop,
My brain dry, make a riddance of the drench
Of minutes with a memory in each,
Recorded motion, breath or look of hers,
Which poured forth would present you one pure glass, (1160)
Mirror you plain,—as God’s sea, glassed in gold,
His saints,—the perfect soul Pompilia? Men,
You must know that a man gets drunk with truth
Stagnant inside him! Oh, they’ve killed her, Sirs!
Can I be calm?
Proves, I maintain, that action of the flight
For the true thing it was. The first faint scratch
O’ the stone will test its nature, teach its worth
To idiots who name Parian, coprolite. (1170)
After all, I shall give no glare—at best
Only display you certain scattered lights
Lamping the rush and roll of the abyss—
Nothing but here and there a fire-point pricks
Wavelet from wavelet: well!
We both were silent in the night, I know:
Sometimes I did not see nor understand.
Blackness engulphed me,—partial stupor, say—
Then I would break way, breathe through the surprise, (1180)
And be aware again, and see who sat
In the dark vest with the white face and hands.
I said to myself—“I have caught it, I conceive
“The mind o’ the mystery: ’tis the way they wake
“And wait, two martyrs somewhere in a tomb
“Each by each as their blessing was to die;
“Some signal they are promised and expect,
“When to arise before the trumpet scares:
“So, through the whole course of the world they wait
“The last day, but so fearless and so safe! (1190)
“No otherwise, in safety and not fear,
“I lie, because she lies too by my side.”
You know this is not love, Sirs,—it is faith,
The feeling that there’s God, he reigns and rules
Out of this low world: that is all; no harm!
At times she drew a soft sigh—music seemed
Always to hover just above her lips
Not settle,—break a silence music too.
Her head erect, her face turned full to me, (1200)
Her soul intent on mine through two wide eyes.
I answered them. “You are saved hitherto.
“We have passed Perugia,—gone round by the wood,
“Not through, I seem to think,—and opposite
“I know Assisi; this is holy ground.”
Then she resumed. “How long since we both left
“Arezzo?”—“Years—and certain hours beside.”
’Tis a mere post-house and a hovel or two,—
I left the carriage and got bread and wine (1210)
And brought it her.—“Does it detain to eat?”
“—They stay perforce, change horses,—therefore eat!
We lose no minute: we arrive, be sure!”
She said—I know not where—there’s a great hill
Close over, and the stream has lost its bridge,
One fords it. She began—“I have heard say
“Of some sick body that my mother knew,
“’Twas no good sign when in a limb diseased
“All the pain suddenly departs,—as if
“The guardian angel discontinued pain (1220)
“Because the hope of cure was gone at
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