She looked, and pitied him. 
Then spoke:  “He loves me with a love that lasts. 
Ah, me! that I might get away from it,
Or, better, hear it said that love IS NOT,
And then I could have rest.  My time is short,
I think, so short.”  And roused against himself
In stormy wrath, that it should be his doom
Her to disquiet whom he loved; ay, her
For whom he would have given all his rest,
If there were any left to give; he took
Her words up bravely, promising once more
Absence, and praying pardon; but some tears
Dropped quietly upon her cheek.

“Remain,”
She said, “for there is something to be told,
Some words that you must hear.

“And first hear this: 
God has been good to me; you must not think
That I despair.  There is a quiet time
Like evening in my soul.  I have no heart,
For cruel Herbert killed it long ago,
And death strides on.  Sit, then, and give your mind
To listen, and your eyes to look at me. 
Look at my face, Laurance, how white it is;
Look at my hand,—­my beauty is all gone.” 
And Laurance lifted up his eyes; he looked,
But answered, from their deeps that held no doubt,
Far otherwise than she had willed,—­they said,
“Lovelier than ever.”

Yet her words went on,
Cold and so quiet, “I have suffered much,
And I would fain that none who care for me
Should suffer a like pang that I can spare. 
Therefore,” said she, and not at all could blush,
“I have brought my mind of late to think of this: 
That since your life is spoilt (not willingly,
My God, not willingly by me), ’twere well
To give you choice of griefs.

“Were it not best
To weep for a dead love, and afterwards
Be comforted the sooner, that she died
Remote, and left not in your house and life
Aught to remind you?  That indeed were best. 
But were it best to weep for a dead wife,
And let the sorrow spend and satisfy
Itself with all expression, and so end? 
I think not so; but if for you ’tis best,
Then,—­do not answer with too sudden words: 
It matters much to you; not much, not much
To me,—­then truly I will die your wife;
I will marry you.”

What was he like to say,
But, overcome with love and tears, to choose
The keener sorrow,—­take it to his heart,
Cherish it, make it part of him, and watch
Those eyes that were his light till they should close?

He answered her with eager, faltering words,
“I choose,—­my heart is yours,—­die in my arms.”

But was it well?  Truly, at first, for him
It was not well:  he saw her fade, and cried,
“When may this be?” She answered, “When you will,”
And cared not much, for very faint she grew,
Tired and cold.  Oft in her soul she thought,
“If I could slip away before the ring
Is on my hand, it were a blessed lot
For both,—­a blessed thing for him, and me.”