viii

Trust! Oh, I could have sunk to ground And lain under his feet! To have his praise was like a wound, Throbbing and deadly sweet; A wound that lets the welling blood Ebb from the vein, Merging the hurt in drowsihood, And hushing down the pain.

High destiny of Nature's calling, Foil'd and frustrate! Just then the evil tide was crawling To drown love in hate.