12
the story of two lives.
Me, sweeping onwards with its fatal power.
Too late, too late, I have lived o'er that hour—
By my own hand I've sworn to die—(what shout
Of devil mirth)—my sin has found me out.
Too late, too late, I have lived o'er that hour—
By my own hand I've sworn to die—(what shout
Of devil mirth)—my sin has found me out.
I pause; I would not startle from her nest
Yon timid bird, low hovering to her rest,
Low calling to her young and to her mate—
I now know pity, tenderness—too late
Dost thou assert thyself. Oh, broken heart!
Oh mad! oh fool! oh blind! thou wert, thou art.
Yon timid bird, low hovering to her rest,
Low calling to her young and to her mate—
I now know pity, tenderness—too late
Dost thou assert thyself. Oh, broken heart!
Oh mad! oh fool! oh blind! thou wert, thou art.
Still there: nay look not on me thus, Adored!—
Thy bare white arm uplifted as a sword,—
With all that questioning sorrow and despair.
Those eyes wild weeping, loosely streaming hair—
That death in life, that terror, that surprise,
As on that day of parting sacrifice.
Through Time, through Space, through all Eternity,
Must I still hear that wild, remorseful cry—
It speaks my doom, e'en as I reach the goal,
It is my curse—"Oh man, restore my soul!"
Thy bare white arm uplifted as a sword,—
With all that questioning sorrow and despair.
Those eyes wild weeping, loosely streaming hair—
That death in life, that terror, that surprise,
As on that day of parting sacrifice.
Through Time, through Space, through all Eternity,
Must I still hear that wild, remorseful cry—
It speaks my doom, e'en as I reach the goal,
It is my curse—"Oh man, restore my soul!"
