The two were silent in a sunless church,
Whose mildewed walls, uneven paving-stones,
And wasted carvings passed antique research;
And nothing broke the clock's dull monotones.
Leaning against a wormy poppy-head,
So wan and worn that he could scarcely stand,
- For he was soon to die,--he softly said,
"Tell me you love me!"--holding hard her hand.
She would have given a world to breathe "yes" truly,
So much his life seemed handing on her mind,
And hence she lied, her heart persuaded throughly
'Twas worth her soul to be a moment kind.
But the sad need thereof, his nearing death,
So mocked humanity that she shamed to prize
A world conditioned thus, or care for breath
Where Nature such dilemmas could devise.
1866.
1 comment:
What a wonderfully apt picture to go with the poem! I can feel that cool that becomes chill, the scent of a stone building, damp and shadowed, and the dimness that shelters the eye and air that settles cool on the skin, when stepping inside on a blazing day.
And the sudden cavernous quiet, a sparrow's chirping echoing in off the stones of the courtyard.
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