Page:The children of the night.djvu/81

 The chains themselves were enough to lead her In love's despite to break them. . . . Sinners And saints—I say—are rocked in the cradle, But never are known till the will within them Speaks in its own good time. So I foster Even to-night for the woman who wronged me, Nothing of hate, nor of love, but a feeling Of still regret; for the man—But hear me, And judge for yourself:—

For a time the seasons Changed and passed in a sweet succession That seemed to me like an endless music: Life was a rolling psalm, and the choirs Of God were glad for our love. I fancied All this, and more than I dare to tell you To-night,—yes, more than I dare to remember; And then—well, the music stopped. There are moments In all men’s lives when it stops, I fancy,— Or seems to stop,—till it comes to cheer them Again with a larger sound. The curtain Of life just then is lifted a little To give to their sight new joys—new sorrows— Or nothing at all, sometimes. I was watching The slow, sweet scenes of a golden picture, Flushed and alive with a long delusion That made the murmur of home, when I shuddered