Page:Collected poems Robinson, Edwin Arlington.djvu/218

 Of asking any more. Did he but live The life that he must live, there were no more To seek.—The rest of it was on the way. Still there was nothing, nothing, in all this Nothing that he cared now to reconcile With reason or with sorrow. All he knew For certain was that he was tired out: —His flesh was heavy and his blood beat small; Something supreme had been wrenched out of him As if to make vague room for something else. He had been through too much. Yes, he would stay There where he was and rest.—And there he stayed; The daylight became twilight, and he stayed; The flame and the face faded, and he slept. And they had buried her that afternoon, Under the tight-screwed lid of a long box, Under the earth, under the leaves and snow. Look where she would, feed conscience how she might, There was but one way now for Damaris One straight way that was hers, hers to defend, At hand, imperious. But the nearness of it, The flesh-bewildering simplicity, And the plain strangeness of it, thrilled again That wretched little quivering single string Which yielded not, but held her to the place Where now for five triumphant years had slept The flameless dust of Argan.—He was gone, The good maTTghe KacTmarried long ago ; And she had lived, and living she had learned, And surely there was nothing to regret: Much happiness had been for each of them,