to fasten on my lips.

6

_Taking a letter from his pocket, he hurries away._

What can it mean for me? What have I done to her?
I, in our season of love as a sun to her:
She, all its heaven of silvery, numberful
Stars and its moon shining golden and slumberful;
Who on my life, that was thorny and lowery,
Gazed--and made beautiful; smiled--and made flowery.
She, to my heart and my soul a divinity!
She, who--I dreamed!--seemed my spirit's affinity!--
What have I done to her? what have I done?

What can she mean by this?--what have I said to her!
I, who have idolized, worshipped, and pled to her;
Sung for her, laughed for her, sorrowed and sighed for her;
Lived for her only; would gladly have died for her!
See!--she has written me thus! she has written me....
Sooner would dagger or serpent had smitten me!--
Would you had shriveled ere ever you'd read of it,
Eyes, that are wide to the bitterest dread of it!--
What have I said to her? what have I said?

What shall I make of it? I who am trembling,
Dreading to lose her.--A moth, the dissembling
Flame of the candle attracts with its guttering,
Flattering on till its body lies fluttering,
Scorched in the summer night.--Foolish, importunate,
Why did'st thou leave the cool flowers, unfortunate!--
Such has she been to me making me such to her,
Slaying me, saying I never was much to her!--
What shall I make of it? what can I make?

Love, in thy everglades, moaning and motionless,
Look, I have fallen; the evil is potionless.
I,--with no thought but the heav'n that did lock us in,--
Set naked feet 'mid the cottonmouth, moccasin,
Under the roses, the Cherokee, eyeing me.--
I,--in the sky with the egrets that, flying me,
Loosened like blooms from magnolias, rose slenderly,
White and pale pink; where the mocking-bird tenderly
Sang, making vistas of mosses melodious;--
Wandered unheeding my steps in the odious
Ooze and the venom. I followed the wiry
Violet curve of thy star falling fiery--
So was I lost in night! thus am undone!

Have I not told to her--living alone for her--
Purposed unfoldments of deeds I had sown for her
Here in the soil of my soul? their variety
Endless--and ever she answered with piety.
See! it has come to this--all the tale's suavity
At the ninth chapter grows wretched to gravity;
Cruel as death all our beautiful history--
Close it!--the finis is m