For he saw what she did not see. 

 That — as kindled by its own fervency — 

 The verge shrivelled inward smoulderingly : 

 And suddenly 'twixt his hand and hers 

 He knew the twenty withered years — 

 No flower, but twenty shrivelled years. 



' Was never such thing until this hour,' 

 Low to his heart he said ; ' the flower 

 Of sleep brings wakening to me. 

 And of oblivion memory.' 



' Was never this thing to me,' he said, 



' Though with bruised poppies my feet are red ! 



And again to his own heart very low : 



' O child ! I love, for I love and know ; 



' But you, who love nor know at all 

 The diverse chambers in Love's guest-hall. 

 Where some rise early, few sit long : 

 In how different accents hear the throng 

 His great Pentecostal tongue ; 



' Who know not love from amity, 



Nor my reported self from me ; 



A fair fit gift is this, meseems, 



You give — this withering flower of dreams. 



' O frankly fickle, and fickly true, 

 Do you know what the days will do to you ? 

 To your love and you what the days will do, 

 O frankly fickle, and fickly true ? 



53 



