Page:Captain Craig; a book of poems.djvu/153

Rh So far and for so long from her that love— Even a love like his, exiled enough, Might for another's touch be born again— Born to be lost and starved for and not found; Or, at the next, the second wretchedest, It might go mutely flickering down and out, And on some incomplete and piteous day, Some perilous day to come, she might at last Learn, with a noxious freedom, what it is To be at peace with ghosts. Then were the blow Thrice deadlier than any kind of death Could ever be: to know that she had won The truth too late—there were the dregs indeed Of wisdom, and of love the final thrust Unmerciful; and there where now did lie So plain before her the straight radiance Of what was her appointed way to take, Were only the bleak ruts of an old road That stretched ahead and faded and lay far Through deserts of unconscionable years.

But vampire thoughts like these confessed the doubt That love denied; and once, if never again, They should be turned away. They might come back—