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Poem	The misery is greater, as I live! To know her flesh so pure, so keen her sense, That she does penance now for no offence, Save against Love. The less can I forgive! The less can I forgive, though I adore That cruel lovely pallor which surrounds Her footsteps; and the low vibrating sounds That come on me, as from a magic shore. Low are they, but most subtle to find out The shrinking soul. Madam, 'tis understood When women play upon their womanhood; It means, a Season gone. And yet I doubt But I am duped. That nun-like look waylays My fancy. Oh! I do but wait a sign! Pluck out the eyes of pride! thy mouth to mine! Never! though I die thirsting. Go thy ways!
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