How was this I did not see

      Such a look as here was shown

      Ere its womanhood had blown

      Past its first felicity? —

      That I did not know you young,

         Faded Face,

            Know you young!

      Why did Time so ill bestead

      That I heard no voice of yours

      Hail from out the curved contours

      Of those lips when rosy red;

      Weeted not the songs they sung,

         Faded Face,

            Songs they sung!

      By these blanchings, blooms of old,

      And the relics of your voice —

      Leavings rare of rich and choice

      From your early tone and mould —

      Let me mourn, – aye, sorrow-wrung,

         Faded Face,

            Sorrow-wrung!

      Stretching eyes west

      Over the sea,

      Wind foul or fair,

      Always stood she

      Prospect-impressed;

      Solely out there

      Did her gaze rest,

      Never elsewhere

      Seemed charm to be.

      Always eyes east

      Ponders she now —

      As in devotion —

      Hills of blank brow

      Where no waves plough.

      Never the least

      Room for emotion

      Drawn from the ocean

      Does she allow.

            “I am here to time, you see;

      The glade is well-screened – eh? – against alarm;

         Fit place to vindicate by my arm

         The honour of my spotless wife,

         Who scorns your libel upon her life

            In boasting intimacy!

            “‘All hush-offerings you’ll spurn,

      My husband.  Two must come; one only go,’

         She said.  ‘That he’ll be you I know;

         To faith like ours Heaven will be just,

         And I shall abide in fullest trust

            Your speedy glad return.’”

         “Good.  Here am also I;

      And we’ll proceed without more waste of words

         To warm your cockpit.  Of the swords

         Take you your choice.  I shall thereby

         Feel that on me no blame can lie,

            Whatever Fate accords.”

         So stripped they there, and fought,

      And the swords clicked and scraped, and the onsets sped;

         Till the husband fell; and his shirt was red

         With streams from his heart’s hot cistern.  Nought

         Could save him now; and the other, wrought

            Maybe to pity, said:

         “Why did you urge on this?

      Your wife assured you; and ’t had better been

         That you had let things pass, serene

         In confidence of long-tried bliss,

         Holding there could be nought amiss

            In what my words might mean.”

         Then, seeing nor ruth nor rage

      Could move his foeman more – now Death’s deaf thrall —

         He wiped his steel, and, with a call

         Like turtledove to dove, swift broke

         Into the copse, where under an oak

            His horse cropt, held by a page.

         “All’s over, Sweet,” he cried

      To the wife, thus guised; for the young page was she.

         “’Tis as we hoped and said ’t would be.

         He never guessed.. We mount and ride

         To where our love can reign uneyed.

            He’s clay, and we are free.”

      How could I be aware,

      The opposite window eyeing

      As I lay listless there,

      That through its blinds was dying

      One I had rated rare

      Before I had set me sighing

      For another more fair?

      Had the house-front been glass,

      My vision unobscuring,

      Could aught have come to pass

      More happiness-insuring

      To her, loved as a lass

      When spouseless, all-alluring?

      I reckon not, alas!

      So, the square window stood,

      Steadily night-long shining

      In my close neighbourhood,

      Who looked forth undivining

      That soon would go for good

      One there in pain reclining,

      Unpardoned, unadieu’d.

      Silently