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Rh This temple of new love where she had thrown Dead sorrow on the altar of new life? Only one thing, only one thread was left; When she broke that, when reason snapped it off, And once for all, baffled, the grave let go The trivial hideous hold it had on her,— Then she were free, free to be what she would, Free to be what she was.—And yet she stayed, Leashed, as it were, and with a cobweb strand, Close to a tombstone—maybe to starve there.

But why to starve? And why stay there at all? Why not make one good leap and then be done Forever and at once with Argan's ghost And all such outworn churchyard servitude? For it was Argan's ghost that held the string, And her sick fancy that held Argan's ghost— Held it and pitied it. She laughed, almost, There for the moment; but her strained eyes filled With tears, and she was angry for those tears— Angry at first, then proud, then sorry for them. So she grew calm; and after a vain chase For thoughts more vain, she questioned of herself What measure of primeval doubts and fears