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 He came up soon; and if I live for ever, The vengeance in his eyes, and a weird gleam Of desolation—if I make you see it— Will be before me as it is tonight. I shall not ever know how long it was I waited his attack that never came; It might have been an instant or an hour That I stood ready there, watching his eyes, And the tears running out of them. They made Me sick, those tears; for I knew, miserably, They were not there for any pain he felt. I do not think he felt the pain at all. He felt the blow. . . . Oh, the whole thing was bad— So bad that even the bleaching suns and rains Of years that wash away to faded lines, Or blot out wholly, the sharp wrongs and ills