Vi

Taking a letter from his pocket, he hurries away:

What can it mean for me? what have I done to her? I, in our season of love as a sun to her: She, all my heaven of silvery, numberless Stars and its moon, shining golden and slumberless; Who on my life, that was thorny and lowery, Came--and made beautiful; smiled--and made flowery. She, to my heart and my soul a divinity! She, who--I dreamed!--seemed my spirit-affinity!-- What have I done to her? what have I done?

What can she mean by this?--what have I said to her? I, who have idolized, worshiped, and pled to her; Sung with her, laughed with her, sorrowed and sighed for her; Lived for her only; and gladly had died for her! See! she has written me thus! she has written me-- Sooner would dagger or serpent had smitten me!-- Would you had shriveled ere ever you’d read of it, Eyes, that are wide to the grief and the dread of it!-- What have I said to her? what have I said? What shall I make of it? I who am trembling, Fearful of losing.--A moth, the dissembling Flame of a taper attracts with its guttering, Flattering on till its body lies fluttering, Scorched in the summer night.--Foolish, importunate, Why didst thou quit the cool flowers, unfortunate!-- Such has she been to me, making me such to her!-- Slaying me, saying I never was much to her!-- What shall I make of it? what can I make?

Love, in thy everglades, moaning and motionless, Look, I have fallen; the evil is potionless: I, with no thought but the day that did lock us in, Set naked feet ’mid the cottonmouth-moccasin, Under the roses, the Cherokee, eying me:-- I,--in the heav’n with the egrets that, flying me, Winging like blooms from magnolias, rose slenderly, Pearl and pale pink: where the mocking-bird tenderly Sang, making vistas of mosses melodious, Wandered,--unheeding my steps,--in the odious Ooze and the venom. I followed the wiry Violet curve of thy star falling fiery-- So was I lost in night! thus am undone!

Have I not told to her--living alone for her-- Purposed unfoldments of deeds I had sown for her Here in the soil of my soul? their variety Endless--and ever she answered with piety. See! it has come to this--all the tale’s suavity At the ninth chapter grows hateful with gravity; Cruel as death all our beautiful history-- Close it!--the final is more than a mystery.-- Yes; I will go to her; yes; and will speak.