Page:Captain Craig; a book of poems.djvu/160

146 Or the brown-glimmered crimson of still trees Across the intervale where flashed along, Black-silvered, the cold river. She had found, As if by some transcendent freakishness Of reason, the glad life that she had sought Where naught but obvious clouds could ever be— Clouds to put out the sunlight from her eyes, And to put out the love-light from her soul. But they were gone—now they were all gone; And with a whimsied pathos, like the mist Of grief that clings to new-found happiness Hard wrought, she might have pity for the small Defeated quest of them that brushed her sight Like flying lint—lint that had once been thread. . . . Yes, like an anodyne, the voice of him, There were the words that he had made for her, For her alone. The more she thought of them The more she lived them, and the more she knew The life-grip and the pulse of warm strength in them. They were the first and last of words to her, And there was in them a far questioning That had for long been variously at work,