To do for both.  And then he clothed himself,
And sat him down betwixt the sun and fire,
And got him ink and paper, and began
And wrote with earnest dying heart as thus. 
“Lady, I owe thee much.  Nay, do not look
To find my name; for though I write it here,
I date as from the churchyard, where I lie
Whilst thou art reading; and thou know’st me not. 
I dare to write, because I am crowned by death
Thy equal.  If my boldness should offend,
I, pure in my intent, hide with the ghosts,
Where thou wilt never meet me, until thou
Knowest that death, like God, doth make of one.

“But pardon, lady.  Ere I had begun,
My thoughts moved towards thee with a gentle flow
That bore a depth of waters.  When I took
My pen to write, they rushed into a gulf,
Precipitate and foamy.  Can it be,
That death who humbles all hath made me proud? 
Lady, thy loveliness hath walked my brain,
As if I were thy heritage in sooth,
Bequeathed from sires beyond all story’s reach. 
For I have loved thee from afar, and long;
Joyous in having seen what lifted me,
By very power to see, above myself. 
Thy beauty hath made beautiful my life;
Thy virtue made mine strong to be itself. 
Thy form hath put on every changing dress
Of name, and circumstance, and history,
That so the life, dumb in the wondrous page
Recording woman’s glory, might come forth
And be the living fact to longing eyes—­
Thou, thou essential womanhood to me;
Afar as angels or the sainted dead,
Yet near as loveliness can haunt a man,
And taking any shape for every need.

“Years, many years, have passed since the first time,
Which was the last, I saw thee.  What have they
Made or unmade in thee?  I ask myself. 
O lovely in my memory! art thou
As lovely in thyself?  Thy features then
Said what God made thee; art thou such indeed? 
Forgive my boldness, lady; I am dead;
And dead men may cry loud, they make no noise.

“I have a prayer to make thee—­hear the dead. 
Lady, for God’s sake be as beautiful
As that white form that dwelleth in my heart;
Yea, better still, as that ideal Pure
That waketh in thee, when thou prayest God,
Or helpest thy poor neighbour.  For myself
I pray.  For if I die and find that she,
My woman-glory, lives in common air,
Is not so very radiant after all,
My sad face will afflict the calm-eyed ghosts,
Not used to see such rooted sadness there,
At least in fields where I may hope to walk
And find good company.  Upon my knees
I could implore thee—­justify my faith
In womanhood’s white-handed nobleness,
And thee, its revelation unto me.