If ever joy leave An abiding sting of sorrow, So befell it on the morrow Of that May eve . . .
The travelled sun dropped To the north-west, low and lower, The pony's trot grew slower, And then we stopped.
"This cosy house just by I must call at for a minute, A sick man lies within it Who soon will die.
"He wished to marry me, So I am bound, when I drive near him, To inquire, if but to cheer him, How he may be."
A message was sent in, And wordlessly we waited, Till some one came and stated The bulletin.
And that the sufferer said, For her call no words could thank her;
As his angel he must rank her Till life's spark fled.
Slowly we drove away, When I turned my head, although not Called; why so I turned I know not Even to this day.
And lo, there in my view Pressed against an upper lattice Was a white face, gazing at us As we withdrew.
And well did I divine It to be the man's there dying, Who but lately had been sighing For her pledged mine.
Then I deigned a deed of hell;
It was done before I knew it;
What devil made me do it I cannot tell!
Yes, while he gazed above, I put my arm about her That he might see, nor doubt her My plighted Love.
The pale face vanished quick, As if blasted, from the casement, And my shame and self-abasement Began their prick.
And they prick on, ceaselessly, For that stab in Love's fierce fashion Which, unfired by lover's passion, Was foreign to me.
She smiled at my caress, But why came the soft embowment Of her shoulder at that moment She did not guess.
Long long years has he lain In thy garth, O sad Saint Cleather:
What tears there, bared to weather, Will cleanse that stain!
Love is long-suffering, brave, Sweet, prompt, precious as a jewel;
But O, too, Love is cruel, Cruel as the grave.