At sunset on the second day he came To that white cabin in the peach-tree plot Where Michael lived; they met, the Shropshire name Rang trebly dear in that outlandish spot. Old memories swam up dear, old joys forgot, Old friends were real again; but Mary's woe Came into Lion's mind, and Michael vexed him so,
Talking with careless freshness, side by side With that dark Spanish beauty who had won, As though no heart-broke woman, heavy-eyed, Mourned for him over sea, as though the sun Shone but to light his steps to love and fun, While she, that golden and beloved soul, Worth ten of him, lay wasting like an unlit coal.
So supper passed; the meat in Lion's gorge Stuck at the last, he could not bide that face. The idle laughter on it plied the forge Where hate was smithying tools; the jokes, the place, Wrought him to wrath; he could not stay for grace. The tin mug full of red wine spilled and fell. He kicked his stool aside with "Michael, this is hell.
"Come out into the night and talk to me." The young man lit a cigarette and followed; The stars seemed trembling at a brink to see; A little ghostly white-owl stooped and holloed. Beside the stake-fence Lion stopped and swallowed, While all the wrath within him made him grey. Michael stood still and smoked, and flicked his ash away.
"Well, Lion," Michael said, "men make mistakes, And then regret them; and an early flame Is frequently the worst mistake man makes. I did not seek this passion, but it came. Love happens so in life. Well? Who's to blame? You'll say I've broken Mary's heart; the heart Is not the whole of life, but an inferior part,
"Useful for some few years and then a curse. Nerves should be stronger. You have come to say The three-year term is up; so much the worse. I cannot meet the bill; I cannot pay. I would not if I could. Men change. To-day I know that that first choice, however sweet, Was wrong and a mistake; it would have meant defeat,
"Ruin and misery to us both. Let be. You say I should have told her this? Perhaps. You try to make a loving woman see That the warm link which holds you to her snaps. Neglect is deadlier than the thunder-claps. Yet she is bright and I am water. Well, I did not make myself; this life is often hell.