The wonder would be if such innocence
Spoiled less. A garden is no place for kids.’
And, by degrees, when he who had chosen her
Brought in his courteous and benignant friends
To spend their goodness on her, which she took
So very gladly, as a part of his,—
By slow degrees it broke on her slow sense,
That she, too, in that Eden of delight
Was out of place, and, like the silly kid,
Still did most mischief where she meant most love.
A thought enough to make a woman mad
(No beast in this, but she may well go mad),
That, saying, ‘I am thine to love and use;’
May blow the plague in her protesting breath
To the very man for whom she claims to die,—
That, clinging round his neck, she pulls him down
And drowns him,—and that, lavishing her soul
She hales perdition on him. ‘So, being mad,’
Said Marian . .
‘Ah—who stirred such thoughts, you ask?
Whose fault it was, that she should have such thoughts?
None’s fault, none’s fault. The light comes, and we see:
But if it were not truly for our eyes,
There would be nothing seen, for all the light.
And so with Marian. If she saw at last,
The sense was in her,—Lady Waldemar
Had spoken all in vain else.’
‘Oh my heart,
O prophet in my heart,’ I cried aloud,
