PART III.

  O the weary, dark, impossible days,
  That have dragg’d their lingering length since then! 
  O the cruel sunshine’s merciless blaze! 
  O the unnatural faces of men!

  I was told it all—­it was all explain’d;
  And they all declar’d that I understood;
  But only one knowledge on earth remain’d,
  I knew that Harry was noble and good.

  They had dined together—­together play’d,
  Together quarrell’d—­who cares about what? 
  And somebody, speaking about them, said,
  ‘They were out and out a thorough bad lot!’
  ’They left the village, they rush’d to the cliff,
  A dissolute crew that good Christians condemn’—­
  This is the way they keep talking, as if
  I did not know Harry was one of them! 
  ’Shouting and swearing, and heated and flush’d,
  All talking together, and running pell mell,
  Out to the cliff from the village they rush’d,
  And two men were fighting, and one man fell.’ 
  And the man who fell over the dreadful edge,
  For ever lost, and for ever must be;
  There was never a sandbank, rock, or ledge,
  There was nothing but the pitiless sea!

  I hear it said, without doubt or surmise,
  Over and over and over again,
  The man who was murder’d was Jack Devize,
  And the man who murder’d him, Harry Vane!

  I dream I am standing on purple heights,
  Alone and alone for ever and aye;
  The sun is shining with pitiless lights;
  I pray that darkness may cover the sky.

  I dream I am lying buried in sand,
  Alone and alone for ever and aye;
  Parch’d and dry is the terrible land;
  I pray but for water before I die.

  I dream I am tossing on ocean waves,
  Alone and alone for ever and aye;
  I shudder to think of the open graves;
  Under daisy blossoms I pray to lie.

  O daisy buds I am dreaming of you,
  Alone and alone for ever and aye;
  From a dream of daisies scatter’d with dew
  I wake with a start, and a piercing cry.

  Let me but dream of affliction and shame,
  Of saints that punish and sinners that cower,
  Of troubles by sickness and sword and flame,
  And not of an innocent daisy flower!

  I am haunted by words—­by seven words—­
  Seven words echoing everywhere;
  They are borne on breezes, and sung by birds,
  They are written on earth and sea and air.

  I think there is nothing else is my own;
  I think there is nothing else is alive;
  Seven words and I are always alone;
  The world about me may hunger and strive.

  I have heard that mystic meaning is hid,
  I have heard that wonderful things are made,
  Of the number seven—­may God forbid—­
  For I cannot tell, and I feel afraid.

  The sweetest poem that ever was writ—­
  Do you not know it?—­is ‘We are seven;’
  For the dear little girl who talks in it,
  Will not give up her brothers in Heaven.