Father, when I had lost her, when I sat
After my sickness on the pallet bed,
My forehead dropp’d into my hand, behold
Some one beside me.  A man’s hand let down
With that same action kind, compassionate,
Upon my shoulder.  And I took the hand
Between mine own, laying my face thereon. 
I knew this man for him who spoke with me,
Letting me see my Delia.  I looked up. 
Lo! lo! the robed ecclesiastic proud,
He and this other one.  Tell you his name? 
Am I a fiend?  No, he was good to me,
Almost he placed his life in my hand. 
                                       Father,
He with good pitying words long talked to me,
‘Did I not strive to save her?’ ‘Ay,’ quoth I. 
’But sith it would not be, I also claim
Death, burning; let me therefore die—­let me. 
I am wicked, would be heretic, but, faith,
I know not how, and Holy Church I hate. 
She is no mother of mine, she slew my love.’ 
What answer?  ’Peace, peace, thou art hard on me. 
Favour I forfeit with the Mother of God,
Lose rank among the saints, foresee my soul
Drenched in the unmitigated flame, and take
My payment in the lives snatched at all risk
From battling in it here.  O, an thou turn
And tear from me, lost to that other world
My heart’s reward in this, I am twice lost;
Now have I doubly failed.’ 
                            Father, I know
The Church would rail, hound forth, disgrace, try, burn,
Make his proud name, discover’d, infamy,
Tread underfoot his ashes, curse his soul. 
But God is greater than the Church.  I hope
He shall not, for that he loved men, lose God. 
I hope to hear it said ’Thy sins are all
Forgiven; come in, thou hast done well.’ 
                                          For me
My chronicle comes down to its last page. 
‘Is not life sweet?’ quoth he, and comforted
My sick heart with good words, ‘duty’ and ‘home.’ 
Then took me at moonsetting down the stair
To the dark deserted midway of the street,
Gave me a purse of money, and his hand
Laid on my shoulder, holding me with words
A father might have said, bad me God speed,
So pushed me from him, turned, and he was gone.

There was a Pleiad lost; where is she now? 
None knoweth,—­O she reigns, it is my creed,
Otherwhere dedicate to making day. 
The God of Gods, He doubtless looked to that
Who wasteth never ought He fashioned. 
I have no vision, but where vision fails
Faith cheers, and truly, truly there is need,
The god of this world being so unkind. 
O love!  My girl for ever to the world
Wanting.  Lost, not that any one should find,
But wasted for the sake of waste, and lost
For love of man’s undoing, of man’s tears,
By envy of the evil one; I mourn
For thee, my golden girl, I mourn, I mourn.