Page:Poems·from·the·Port·Hills-Blanche·Edith·Baughan-1923.pdf/20



My love had in a madhouse been, full seven years and more, Till last night at twilight, there she stood within my door! But she that had been lowly, how grand was now her grace: The dark room was bright with the glory from her face.

She said, “I stay’d in prison, to pay my full debt; I stay’d in school to learn so deep as never to forget. Touch me not! but tell me, the long way back I’ve come, O, is it to a stranger, or my heart’s old home?”

“Never an hour of all the days of the seven years,” I said, “That the door has not been wide for you, and a full meal spread. Horror, Rebellion, and Despair have beggar’d me, ’tis true, But my heart’s hearth has kept, see, ever ablaze for you!”

“Why, is it seven years,” she said, “or seconds, that you mean? Long, long, long, and yet how little it has been!