I think that I have--I hop'd that I had--
For I weary with wondering, what is sin?

There's blood on your hand--there's blood on your soul--
O lily-white hand--soul noble and true!
You murder'd him where the blue waters roll,
And he set the seal of his death on you.

I have sat so happily by your side,
I have lain so tranquilly on your breast;
But I think that you died, and I think that I died--
And death is the end of all, and the best.

It was God who created men and time;
And a better than you He could not need;
So if you did it, it was not a crime,
And if 'twas a crime, you did not the deed.

I am fighting with life, with death I strive;
Ready for neither; both crush with their might;
Only those seven words keep me alive--
You said 'you shall follow me,' and 'I'll write.'




They stealthily talk; I hear what they say--
Sharply she hears who each syllable dreads--
Glancing at me in significant way,
Touching their foreheads and shaking their heads.