Then when the violet opened, she rose up
And walked:  the tender leaf and tender light
Did solace her; but she was white and wan,
The shadow of that Muriel, in the wood
Who listened to those deadly words. 
                                    And now
Empurpled seas began to blush and bloom,
Doves made sweet moaning, and the guelder rose
In a great stillness dropped, and ever dropped,
Her wealth about her feet, and there it lay,
And drifted not at all.  The lilac spread
Odorous essence round her; and full oft,
When Muriel felt the warmth her pulses cheer,
She, faded, sat among the Maytide bloom,
And with a reverent quiet in her soul,
Took back—­it was His will—­her time, and sat
Learning again to live. 
                        Thus as she sat
Upon a day, she was aware of one
Who at a distance marked her.  This again
Another day, and she was vexed, for yet
She longed for quiet; but she heard a foot
Pass once again, and beckoned through the trees. 
“Laurance!” And all impatient of unrest
And strife, ay, even of the sight of them,
When he drew near, with tired, tired lips,
As if her soul upbraided him, she said,
“Why have you done this thing?” He answered her,
“I am not always master in the fight: 
I could not help it.” 
                      “What!” she sighed, “not yet! 
O, I am sorry”; and she talked to him
As one who looked to live, imploring him,—­
“Try to forget me.  Let your fancy dwell
Elsewhere, nor me enrich with it so long;
It wearies me to think of this your love. 
Forget me!”

He made answer, “I will try: 
The task will take me all my life to learn,
Or were it learned, I know not how to live;
This pain is part of life and being now,—­
It is myself; but yet—­but I will try.” 
Then she spoke friendly to him,—­of his home,
His father, and the old, brave, loving folk;
She bade him think of them.  And not her words,
But having seen her, satisfied his heart. 
He left her, and went home to live his life,
And all the summer heard it said of her,
“Yet, she grows stronger”; but when autumn came
Again she drooped.

A bitter thing it is
To lose at once the lover and the love;
For who receiveth not may yet keep life
In the spirit with bestowal.  But for her,
This Muriel, all was gone.  The man she loved,
Not only from her present had withdrawn,
But from her past, and there was no such man,
There never had been.

He was not as one
Who takes love in, like some sweet bird, and holds
The winged fluttering stranger to his breast,
Till, after transient stay, all unaware
It leaves him:  it has flown.  No; this may live
In memory,—­loved till death.  He was not vile;
For who by choice would part with that pure bird,
And lose the exaltation of its song? 
He had not strength of will to keep it fast,