We used to talk, beside the crackling grate (Between the pages of a Grecian play), We used to talk so often (after day Had merged to summer's moonlight low and late), As she undid her hair, of man and mate And that one sorrow (bred by love) to come, When one or other should lie stark and dumb, With one or other walking desolate. "Were it not better I were first to go?" And she would fold me round: "No, no, O no!" And though I shuddered, musing the reverse, Her twofold meaning I was quick to guess: My love defended her from that dread curse, And her life counted in the world for less. |