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144 Had she been there to watch him while he wrote Those words, and all for her. . . . For her whose face Had flashed itself, prophetic and unseen, But not unspirited, between the life That would have been without her and the life That he had gathered up like frozen roots Out of a grave-clod lying at his feet, Unconsciously, and as unconsciously Transplanted and revived. He did not know The kind of life that he had found, nor did He doubt, not knowing it; but well he knew That it was life—new life, and that the old Might then with unimprisoned wings go free, Onward and all along to its own light, Through the appointed shadow. While she gazed Upon it there she felt within herself The growing of a newer consciousness— The pride of something fairer than her first Outclamoring of interdicted thought Had ever quite foretold; and all at once There quivered and requivered through her flesh, Like music, like the sound of an old song, Triumphant, love-remembered murmurings Of what for passion's innocence had been Too mightily, too perilously hers,