The blood had fled from either cheekAnd from her lips; she could not speak,But she could only stand and stareAnd let her pain stab through the air.I think a blow to heart or headHad hurt her less than what he said.A blow can be so quick and kind,But words will feast upon the mindAnd gnaw the heart down to a shred,And leave you living, yet leave you dead.If he had only tortured me,I could have borne it valiantly.The things he said in littlenessWere cheap, the blow he dealt me less,Only they totalled more; he gaggedAnd bound a spirit there; he draggedA sunlit gown of gold and green,—(The season's first, first to be seen)And feathered feet, and a plumed hat—(First of the year to be wondered at)Through muck and mire, and by the hairHe caught a lady rich and fair.His vile and puny fingers churnedOur world about that sang and burnedA while as never world before.He had unlatched an icy door,And let the winter in once more.
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