And she seemed of an infantine weakness, and sudden he felt ashamed
To be wroth with so cyclamen-frail a thing, and never a word he blamed
His penitent love, but hushed her sobs, imploring her not to weep,—
And she strove with a broken smile to obey; but thrice in the midnight deep,
Kyrle, lying awake while the equinox raged, heard a moan break sharp through her sleep.
Ah! in that night that must come to us all, when a dear one low lies in the grave,
Pray God that we need not remember how once the lost darling did crave
In vain for our word of forgiveness and tenderest patience,—Nay, more!
Pray God we recall some moment we might justly have scarified o’er
With lava-reproaches a trembling offender, but sweetly forbore!
