Page:The Broken Wing.djvu/117

 4. Love Triumphant

your fair mind were quenched with dark distress, Your dear hands stained with fierce blood-guiltiness, Or your sweet flesh fell rotting from the bone, Should not my deep unchanging love atone And shield you from the sore decree of Fate And the world's storm of horror and of hate?

What were to me your dire disease or crime, The scorn of men, the cold revenge of Time? Has life a suffering still I shall not dare, Love, for your sake to conquer or to bear, If I might yield you solace, succour, rest, And hush your awful anguish on my breast?