Nor warmth of heart to keep it warm, nor life
Of thought to make the echo sound for him
After the song was done.  Pity that man: 
His music is all flown, and he forgets
The sweetness of it, till at last he thinks
’Twas no great matter.  But he was not vile,
Only a thing to pity most in man,
Weak,—­only poor, and, if he knew it, undone. 
But Herbert!  When she mused on it, her soul
Would fain have hidden him forevermore,
Even from herself:  so pure of speech, so frank,
So full of household kindness.  Ah, so good
And true!  A little, she had sometimes thought,
Despondent for himself, but strong of faith
In God, and faith in her, this man had seemed.

Ay, he was gone! and she whom he had wed,
As Muriel learned, was sick, was poor, was sad. 
And Muriel wrote to comfort her, and send,
From her small store, money to help her need,
With, “Pray you keep it secret.”  Then the whole
Of the cruel tale was told. 
                            What more?  She died. 
Her kin, profuse of thanks, not bitterly,
Wrote of the end.  “Our sister fain had seen
Her husband; prayed him sore to come.  But no. 
And then she prayed him that he would forgive,
Madam, her breaking of the truth to you. 
Dear madam, he was angry, yet we think
He might have let her see, before she died,
The words she wanted, but he did not write
Till she was gone—­’I neither can forgive,
Nor would I if I could.’”
                            “Patience, my heart! 
And this, then, is the man I loved!”
                                      But yet
He sought a lower level, for he wrote
Telling the story with a different hue,
Telling of freedom.  He desired to come,
“For now,” said he, “O love, may all be well.” 
And she rose up against it in her soul,
For she despised him.  And with passionate tears
Of shame, she wrote, and only wrote these words,—­
“Herbert, I will not see you.” 
                                 Then she drooped
Again; it is so bitter to despise;
And all her strength, when autumn leaves down dropped,
Fell from her.  “Ah!” she thought, “I rose up once,
I cannot rise up now; here is the end.” 
And all her kinsfolk thought, “It is the end.”

But when that other heard, “It is the end,”
His heart was sick, and he, as by a power
Far stronger than himself, was driven to her. 
Reason rebelled against it, but his will
Required it of him with a craving strong
As life, and passionate though hopeless pain.

She, when she saw his face, considered him
Full quietly, let all excuses pass
Not answered, and considered yet again.

“He had heard that she was sick; what could he do
But come, and ask her pardon that he came?”
What could he do, indeed?—­a weak white girl
Held all his heartstrings in her small white hand;
His youth, and power, and majesty were hers,
And not his own.