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Rh To clutch the sunlight and be feeling back, Back with a scared fantastic fearfulness, To touch, not knowing why, the vexed-up ghost Of what was gone?

Yes, there was Argan's face, Pallid and pinched and ruinously marked With big pathetic bones; there were his eyes, Quiet and large, fixed wistfully on hers; And there, close-pressed again within her own, Quivered his cold thin fingers. And, ah! yes, There were the words, those dying words again, And hers that answered when she promised him. Promised him? . . . yes. And had she known the truth Of what she felt that he should ask her that, And had she known the love that was to be, God knew that she could not have told him then. But then she knew it not, nor thought of it; There was no need of it; nor was there need Of any problematical support Whereto to cling while she convinced herself That love's intuitive utility, Inexorably merciful, had proved That what was human was unpermanent And what was flesh was ashes. She had told Him then that she would love no other man,