With dusk he was at home, and felt it good
To hear his kindred talking, for it broke
A mocking, endless echo in his soul,
“It is no matter!” and he could not choose
But mutter, though the weariness o’ercame
His spirit, “Peace, it is no matter; peace,
It is no matter!” For he felt that all
Was as it had been, and his father’s heart
Was easy, knowing not how that same day
Hope with her tender colors and delight
(He should not care to have him know) were dead;
Yea, to all these, his nearest and most dear,
It was no matter.  And he heard them talk
Of timber felled, of certain fruitful fields,
And profitable markets. 
                            All for him
Their plans, and yet the echoes swarmed and swam
About his head, whenever there was pause;
“It is no matter!” And his greater self
Arose in him and fought.  “It matters much,
It matters all to these, that not to-day
Nor ever they should know it.  I will hide
The wound; ay, hide it with a sleepless care. 
What! shall I make these three to drink of rue,
Because my cup is bitter?” And he thrust
Himself in thought away, and made his ears
Hearken, and caused his voice, that yet did seem
Another, to make answer, when they spoke,
As there had been no snowstorm, and no porch,
And no despair. 
                So this went on awhile
Until the snow had melted from the wold,
And he, one noonday, wandering up a lane,
Met on a turn the woman whom he loved. 
Then, even to trembling he was moved:  his speech
Faltered; but when the common kindly words
Of greeting were all said, and she passed on,
He could not bear her sweetness and his pain,
“Muriel!” he cried; and when she heard her name,
She turned.  “You know I love you,” he broke out: 
She answered “Yes,” and sighed. 
                                “O pardon me. 
Pardon me,” quoth the lover; “let me rest
In certainty, and hear it from your mouth: 
Is he with whom I saw you once of late
To call you wife?” “I hope so,” she replied;
And over all her face the rose-bloom came,
As thinking on that other, unaware
Her eyes waxed tender.  When he looked on her,
Standing to answer him, with lovely shame,
Submiss, and yet not his, a passionate,
A quickened sense of his great impotence
To drive away the doom got hold on him;
He set his teeth to force the unbearable
Misery back, his wide-awakened eyes
Flashed as with flame. 
                         And she, all overawed
And mastered by his manhood, waited yet,
And trembled at the deep she could not sound;
A passionate nature in a storm; a heart
Wild with a mortal pain, and in the grasp
Of an immortal love. 
                       “Farewell,” he said,
Recovering words, and when she gave her hand,
“My thanks for your good candor; for I feel
That it has cost you something.”  Then,