“The limb will not again exert itself,
“It needs be pained no longer: so with me,
“—My soul whence all the pain is past at once:
“All pain must be to work some good in the end.
“True, this I feel now, this may be that good,
“Pain was because of,—otherwise, I fear!”
When I had let the silence be,—abrupt—
“Have you a mother?”—“She died, I was born.” (1230)
“A sister then?”—“No sister.”—“Who was it—
“What woman were you used to serve this way,
“Be kind to, till I called you and you came?”
I did not like that word. Soon afterward—
“Tell me, are men unhappy, in some kind
“Of mere unhappiness at being men,
“As women suffer, being womanish?
“Have you, now, some unhappiness, I mean,
“Born of what may be man’s strength overmuch,
“To match the undue susceptibility, (1240)
“The sense at every pore when hate is close?
“It hurts us if a baby hides its face
“Or child strikes at us punily, calls names
“Or makes a mouth,—much more if stranger men
“Laugh or frown,—just as that were much to bear!
“Yet rocks split,—and the blow-ball does no more,
“Quivers to feathery nothing at a touch;
“And strength may have its drawback, weakness scapes.”
“At the great gate with the eagles and the snakes, (1250)
“Where the company entered, ’tis a long time since?”
“—Forgive—I think you would not understand:
“Ah, but you ask me,—therefore, it was this.
“That was a certain bishop’s villa-gate,
“I knew it by the eagles,—and at once
“Remembered this same bishop was just he
“People of old were wont to bid me please
“If I would catch preferment: so, I smiled
“Because an impulse came to me, a whim—
“What if I prayed the prelate leave to speak, (1260)
“Began upon him in his presence-hall
“—‘What, still at work so grey and obsolete?
“ ‘Still rocheted and mitred more or less?
“ ‘Don’t you feel all that out of fashion now?
“ ‘I find out when the day of things is done!’ ”
“I told you I can neither read nor write.
“My life stopped with the play-time; I will learn,
“If I begin to live again: but you—
“Who are a priest—wherefore do you not read (1270)
“The service at this hour? Read Gabriel’s song,
“The lesson, and then read the little prayer
“To Raphael, proper for us travellers!”
I did not like that, neither, but I read.
The people of the post came out with lights:
The driver said, “This time to-morrow, may
“Saints only help, relays continue good,
“Nor robbers hinder, we arrive at Rome.”
I urged,—“Why tax your strength a second night? (1280)
“Trust me, alight here and take brief repose!
“We are out of harm’s reach, past pursuit: go sleep
“If but an hour! I keep watch, guard the while
“Here in the doorway.” But her whole face changed,
The misery grew again about her mouth,
The eyes burned up from faintness, like the fawn’s
Tired to death in the thicket, when she feels
The probing spear o’ the huntsman. “Oh, no stay!”
She cried, in the fawn’s cry, “On to Rome, on, on—
“Unless ’tis you who fear,—which cannot be!” (1290)
She was troubled, restless, moaned low, talked at whiles
To herself, her brow on quiver with the dream:
Once, wide awake, she menaced, at arms’ length
Waved away something—“Never again with you!
“My soul is mine, my body is my soul’s:
“You and I are divided ever more
“In soul and body: get you gone!” Then I—
“Why, in my whole life I have never prayed!
“Oh, if the God, that only can, would help! (1300)
“Am I his priest with power to cast out fiends?
“Let God arise and all his enemies
“Be scattered!” By morn, there was peace, no sigh
Out of the deep sleep.
I answered the first look—“Scarce twelve hours more,
“Then, Rome! There probably was no pursuit,
“There cannot now be peril: bear up brave!
“Just some twelve hours to press through to the prize—
“Then, no more of the terrible journey!” “Then, (1310)
“No more o’ the journey: if it might but last!
“Always, my life-long, thus to journey still!
“It is the interruption that I dread,—
“With no dread, ever to be here and thus!
“Never to see a face nor hear a voice!
“Yours is no voice; you speak when you are dumb;
“Nor face, I see it in the dark. I want
“No face nor voice that change and grow unkind.”
That I liked, that was the best thing she said.
I told a woman, at the garden-gate
By the post- house, white and pleasant in the sun,
“It is my sister,—talk with her apart!
“She is married and unhappy,
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