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Poem	I am to follow her. There is much grace In woman when thus bent on martyrdom. They think that dignity of soul may come, Perchance, with dignity of body. Base! But I was taken by that air of cold And statuesque sedateness, when she said 'I'm going'; lit a taper, bowed her head, And went, as with the stride of Pallas bold. Fleshly indifference horrible! The hands Of Time now signal: O, she's safe from me! Within those secret walls what do I see Where first she set the taper down she stands: Not Pallas: Hebe shamed! Thoughts black as death, Like a stirred pool in sunshine break. Her wrists I catch: she faltering, as she half resists, 'You love. . . ? love. . . ? love. . . ?' all on an in-drawn breath.
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