The Face At The Casement

If ever joy leave     An abiding sting of sorrow,     So befell it on the morrow         Of that May eve . . .         The travelled sun dropped     To the north-west, low and lower,     The pony's trot grew slower,         And then we stopped.         "This cosy house just by     I must call at for a minute,     A sick man lies within it         Who soon will die.         "He wished to marry me,     So I am bound, when I drive near him,     To inquire, if but to cheer him,         How he may be."         A message was sent in,     And wordlessly we waited,     Till some one came and stated         The bulletin.         And that the sufferer said,     For her call no words could thank her;     As his angel he must rank her         Till life's spark fled.         Slowly we drove away,     When I turned my head, although not     Called; why so I turned I know not         Even to this day.         And lo, there in my view     Pressed against an upper lattice     Was a white face, gazing at us         As we withdrew.         And well did I divine     It to be the man's there dying,     Who but lately had been sighing         For her pledged mine.         Then I deigned a deed of hell;     It was done before I knew it;     What devil made me do it         I cannot tell!         Yes, while he gazed above,     I put my arm about her     That he might see, nor doubt her         My plighted Love.         The pale face vanished quick,     As if blasted, from the casement,     And my shame and self-abasement         Began their prick.         And they prick on, ceaselessly,     For that stab in Love's fierce fashion     Which, unfired by lover's passion,         Was foreign to me.         She smiled at my caress,     But why came the soft embowment     Of her shoulder at that moment         She did not guess.         Long long years has he lain     In thy garth, O sad Saint Cleather:     What tears there, bared to weather,         Will cleanse that stain!         Love is long-suffering, brave,     Sweet, prompt, precious as a jewel;     But O, too, Love is cruel,         Cruel as the grave.