the story of two lives.
3
But one poor relic, in her hand held fast,
This squalid misery with some brighter past
Must once have bound —a soiled, torn heron's plume." . . .
God! what white Presence shivered through the room?
"How strangely pale you look! are you not well?"
She rose and left me.
This squalid misery with some brighter past
Must once have bound —a soiled, torn heron's plume." . . .
God! what white Presence shivered through the room?
"How strangely pale you look! are you not well?"
She rose and left me.
Ah! what bell
Was that she touched that rang so sharp a sound,—
Vibrating down the walls, and from the ground,
Louder and louder till it clove my brain,
Which throbbed and throbbed, and echoed it again?
Who groaned? Not I—I firmly laid my hand
Upon a chair; I could each pulse command.
But why should all things glow with sudden fire,
Or fade in sudden darkness? why require
To grope my way around by sense of touch,
As if I could not trust my sight as much?
Did no accusing phantom enter there,
Shadowy, impalpable, yet deathly fair?
Could those few words, read in that smooth, chill tone
Root up my being—leave it all o'erthrown?
And o'er the ruin did an angel come,
And roll away the stone from my heart's tomb?
Was that she touched that rang so sharp a sound,—
Vibrating down the walls, and from the ground,
Louder and louder till it clove my brain,
Which throbbed and throbbed, and echoed it again?
Who groaned? Not I—I firmly laid my hand
Upon a chair; I could each pulse command.
But why should all things glow with sudden fire,
Or fade in sudden darkness? why require
To grope my way around by sense of touch,
As if I could not trust my sight as much?
Did no accusing phantom enter there,
Shadowy, impalpable, yet deathly fair?
Could those few words, read in that smooth, chill tone
Root up my being—leave it all o'erthrown?
And o'er the ruin did an angel come,
And roll away the stone from my heart's tomb?
