Page:Wessex poems and other verses (IA wessexpoemsother00hard).pdf/215

 "This, too, is ill," He answered still, The man who swayed her like a shade. "An hour will come when sight of such sweet nook Would bring a bitterness too sharp to brook, When brighter eyes have won away his look; For you will fade."

Then said she faintly: "O, contrive some way— Some narrow winding turret, quite mine own, To reach a loft where I may grieve alone! It is a slight thing; hence do not, I pray, This last dear fancy slay!"

"Such winding ways Fit not your days," Said he, the man of measuring eye; "I must even fashion as my rule declares, To wit: Give space (since life ends unawares) To hale a coffined corpse adown the stairs; For you will die."

1867.