He fell across the bridal bed Between the tapers pale: "I first shall see our God," he said, "And I will tell thy tale.
"And if God judge thee as I do, Then art thou justified. I loved thee and I was not true, And that was why I died.
"If I could judge thee, thou shouldst be First of the saints on high; But ah, I fear God loveth thee Not half so dear as I!"
The year fades, as the west wind sighs, And droops in many-coloured ways, But your soft presence never dies From out the pathway of my days.
The spring is where you are, but still You from your heaven to me can bring Sweet dreams and flowers enough to fill A thousand empty worlds with Spring.
I walk the wet and leafless woods; Your shadow ever goes before And paints the russet solitudes With colours Summer never wore.
I sit beside my lonely fire; The ghostly twilight brings your face And lights with memory and desire My desolated dwelling-place.
Among my books I feel your hand That turns the page just past my sight, Sometimes behind my chair you stand And read the foolish rhymes I write.
The old piano's keys I press In random chords until I hear Your voice, your rustling silken dress, And smell the violets that you wear.
I do not weep now any more, I think I hardly even sigh; I would not have you think I bore The kind of wound of which men die.
Believe that smooth content has grown Over the ghastly grave of pain-- "Content!" ... O lips, that were my own, That I shall never kiss again!
For what wilt thou sell thy Lord? "For certain pieces of silver, since wealth buys the world's good word." But the world's word, how canst thou hear it, while thy brothers cry scorn on thy name? And how shall thy bargain content thee, when thy brothers shall clothe thee with shame?
For what shall thy brother be sold? "For the rosy garland of pleasure, and the coveted crown of gold." But thy soul will turn them to thorns, and to heaviness binding thy head, While women are dying of shame, and children are crying for bread.
For what wilt thou sell thy soul? "For the world." And what shall it profit, when thou shalt have gained the whole? What profit the things thou hast, if the thing thou art be so mean? Wilt thou fill, with the husks of having, the void of the might-have-been?