Pitiful heaven!  I knew she did not hear
In that last hour the cursing, nor the foul
Words; she had never heard like words, sweet soul,
In her life blameless; even at that pass,
That dreadful pass, I felt it had been worse,
Though nought I longed for as for death, to know
She did.  She saw not ’neath their hoods those eyes
Soft, glittering, with a lust for cruelty;
Secret delight, that so great cruelty,
All in the sacred name of Holy Church,
Their meed to look on it should be anon. 
Speak!  O, I tell you this thing passeth word! 
From roofs and oriels high, women looked down;
Men, maidens, children, and a fierce white sun
Smote blinding splinters from all spears aslant.

Lo! next a stand, so please you, certain priests
(May God forgive men sinning at their ease),
Whose duty ’t was to look upon this thing,
Being mindful of thick pungent smoke to come,
Had caused a stand to rise hard by the stake,
Upon its windward side.

My life! my love! 
She utter’d one sharp cry of mortal dread
While they did chain her.  This thing passeth words,
Albeit told out for ever in my soul. 
As the torch touched, thick volumes of black reek
Rolled out and raised the wind, and instantly
Long films of flaxen hair floated aloft,
Settled alow, in drifts upon the crowd. 
The vile were merciful; heaped high, my dear,
Thou didst not suffer long.  O! it was soon,
Soon over, and I knew not any more,
Till grovelling on the ground, beating my head,
I heard myself, and scarcely knew ’t was I,
At Holy Church railing with fierce mad words,
Crying and craving for a stake, for me. 
While fast the folk, as ever, such a work
Being over, fled, and shrieked ’A heretic! 
More heretics; yon ashes smoking still.’

And up and almost over me came on
A robed—­ecclesiastic—­with his train
(I choose the words lest that they do some wrong)
Call him a robed ecclesiastic proud. 
And I lying helpless, with my bruised face
Beat on his garnished shoon.  But he stepped back,
Spurned me full roughly with them, called the pikes,
Delivering orders, ’Take the bruised wretch. 
He raves.  Fool! thou’lt hear more of this anon. 
Bestow him there.’  He pointed to a door. 
With that some threw a cloth upon my face
Because it bled.  I knew they carried me
Within his home, and I was satisfied;
Willing my death.  Was it an abbey door? 
Was ’t entrance to a palace? or a house
Of priests?  I say not, nor if abbot he,
Bishop or other dignity; enough
That he so spake.  ‘Take in the bruised wretch.’ 
And I was borne far up a turret stair
Into a peaked chamber taking form
O’ the roof, and on a pallet bed they left
Me miserable.  Yet I knew forsooth,
Left in my pain, that evil things were said
Of that same tower; men thence had disappeared,
Suspect of heresy had disappeared,