had lived was my life; That the glorious world I had loved was my world; And that every man, and every woman, And every child was a different being, Wrought with a different heat, and fired With passions born of a single spirit; That the pleasure I felt was not their pleasure, Nor my sorrow — a kind of nameless pity For something, I knew not what — their sorrow. And thus was I taught my first hard lesson, —      The lesson we suffer the most in learning:      That a happy man is a man forgetful Of all the torturing ills around him. When or where I first met the woman I cherished and made my wife, no matter. Enough to say that I found her and kept her Here in my heart with as pure a devotion As ever Christ felt for his brothers. Forgive me For naming His name in your patient presence; But I feel my words, and the truth I utter Is God's own truth. I loved that woman, —      Not for her face, but for something fairer, Something diviner, I thought, than beauty:      I loved the spirit — the human something That seemed to chime with my own condition, And make soul-music when we were together; And we were never apart, from the moment My eyes flashed into her eyes the message That swept itself in a quivering answer Back through my strange lost being. My pulses      Leapt with an aching speed; and the measure Of this great world grew small and smaller, Till it seemed the sky and the land and the ocean Closed at last in a mist all golden Around us two. And we stood for a season Like gods outflung from chaos, dreaming That we were the king and the queen of the fire That reddened the clouds of love that held us Blind to the new world soon to be ours —      Ours to seize and sway. The passion Of that great love was a nameless passion, Bright as the blaze of the sun at noonday, Wild as the flames of hell; but, mark you, Never a whit less pure for its fervor. The baseness in me (for I was human)      Burned like a worm, and perished; and nothing Was left me then but a soul that mingled Itself with hers, and swayed and shuddered In fearful triumph. When I consider That helpless love and the cursed folly That wrecked my life for the sake of a woman Who broke with a laugh the chains of her marriage      (Whatever the word may mean), I wonder If all the woe was her sin, or whether The chains themselves were enough to lead her In love's despite to break them. . . . Sinners And saints — I say — are rocked in the cradle, But never are known till the will within them Speaks in its own good time. So I foster Even 

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