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Rh While saints applaud him. He mistook the world: But I mistook my own heart,—and that slip Was fatal. Romney,—will you leave me here? So wrong, so proud, so weak, so unconsoled, So mere a woman!—and I love you so,— I love you, Romney.’ Could I see his face, I wept so? Did I drop against his breast, Or did his arms constrain me? Were my cheeks Hot, overflooded, with my tears, or his? And which of our two large explosive hearts So shook me? That, I know not. There were words That broke in utterance. . melted, in the fire; Embrace, that was convulsion,. . then a kiss. . As long and silent as the ecstatic night,— And deep, deep, shuddering breaths, which meant beyond Whatever could be told by word or kiss.

But what he said. . I have written day by day, With somewhat even writing. Did I think That such a passionate rain would intercept And dash this last page? What he said, indeed, I fain would write it down here like the rest To keep it in my eyes, as in my ears, The heart’s sweet scripture, to be read at night When weary, or at morning when afraid, And lean my heaviest oath on when I swear That when all’s done, all tried, all counted here, All great arts, and all good philosophies,— This love just puts its hand out in a dream