Chapter 4

Our panting ankle barely gained When night devoured the road; But we stood whispering in the house, And all we said was "Saved"!

XL.

I think just how my shape will rise When I shall be forgiven, Till hair and eyes and timid head Are out of sight, in heaven.

I think just how my lips will weigh With shapeless, quivering prayer That you, so late, consider me, The sparrow of your care.

I mind me that of anguish sent, Some drifts were moved away Before my simple bosom broke, -- And why not this, if they?

And so, until delirious borne I con that thing, -- "forgiven," -- Till with long fright and longer trust I drop my heart, unshriven!

XLI.

THE FORGOTTEN GRAVE.

After a hundred years Nobody knows the place, -- Agony, that enacted there, Motionless as peace.

Weeds triumphant ranged, Strangers strolled and spelled At the lone orthography Of the elder dead.

Winds of summer fields Recollect the way, -- Instinct picking up the key Dropped by memory.

XLII.

Lay this laurel on the one Too intrinsic for renown. Laurel! veil your deathless tree, -- Him you chasten, that is he!