one sweet woman unto whom he bent As pliant as the quarried marble turned To life immortal in his own great hand. Steadfast, Vittoria looked on Angelo. She lifted lonely eyes. The years trod slow. Fourfold the reverence which he gave to her, Fourfold the awful tenderness, fourfold The loyalty, the trust. And oh, fourfold The comfort, beyond all power of comforting, Whereby a lesser man may heal the hurt Of widowhood! 

 Pescara had one soul— A little one; and it was stained. And he— It too, perhaps (God knows!)—was dead. The dead are God's. 

Pescara had one soul—

 Vittoria had one heart. The woman gave it, and the woman gives Once. Angelo was too late. And one who dared To shed a tear for him, has dropped it here. 

Vittoria had one heart.

 

 

 NEW NEIGHBORS. 

 Within the window's scant recess, Behind a pink geranium flower, She sits and sews, and sews and sits, From patient hour to patient hour. 

Behind a pink geranium flower,

From patient hour to patient hour.

 As woman-like as marble is, Or as a lovely death might be— A marble death condemned to make A feint at life perpetually. 

Or as a lovely death might be—

A feint at life perpetually.

 Wondering, I watch to pity her; Wandering, I go my restless ways; Content, I think the untamed thoughts Of free and solitary days, 

Wandering, I go my restless ways;

Of free and solitary days,

 Until the mournful dusk begins To drop upon the quiet street, Until, upon the pavement far, There falls the sound of coming feet: 

 Prev. P 16/63 next