Careless he was of much the world counts gain,
Careless of self, too simple to be vain,
Yet strung so finely that for conscience-sake
He would have gone like Cranmer to the stake.
I saw--how could I help but love? And you--


AGLAE.

At this perfection did I worship too . . .
'Twas this that stabbed me. Heed not what I say!
I meant it not, my wits are gone astray,
With all that is and has been. No, I lie--
Had he been less perfection, happier I!


MURIEL.

Strange words and wild! 'Tis the distracted mind
Breathes them, not you, and I no meaning find.


AGLAE.

Yet 'twere as plain as writing on a scroll
Had you but eyes to read within my soul.--
How a grief hidden feeds on its own mood,
Poisons the healthful currents of the blood
With bitterness, and turns the heart to stone!
I think, in truth, 'twere better to make moan,