, Cousin Clement, or comedy,--just as you like it;--
Only not here alone, but somewhere that people can see you.
Then I'll take part in the play, and appear the remorseful young
person
Full of divine regrets at not having smothered a genius
Under the feathers and silks of a foolish, extravagant woman.
O you selfish boy! what was it, just now, about anguish?
Bills would be your talk, Cousin Clement, if you were my husband."
Then, with her summer-night glory of eyes low-bending upon him,
Dark'ning his thoughts as the pondered stars bewilder and darken,
Tenderly, wistfully drooping toward him, she faltered in whisper,--
All her mocking face transfigured,--with mournful effusion:
"Clement, do not think it is you alone that remember,--
Do not think it is you alone that have suffered. Ambition,
Fame, and your art,--you have all these things to console you.
I--what have I in this world? Since my child is dead--a bereavement."
Sad hung her eyes on his, and he felt all the anger within him
Broken, and melting in tears. But he shrank from her touch while he
answered
(Awkwardly, being a man, and awkwardly, being a lover),
"Yes, you know how it is done. You have cleverly fooled me
beforetime,
With a dainty scorn, and then an imploring forgiveness!
Yes, you might play it, I think,--that _role_ of remorseful young
person,
That, or the old man's darling, or anything else you attempted.
Even your earnest is so much like acting I fear a betrayal,
Trusting your speech. You say that you have not forgotten. I grant
you--
Not, indeed, for your word--that is light--but I wish to believe
you.
Well, I say, since you have not forgotten, forget now, forever!
I--I have lived and loved, and you have lived and have married.
Only receive this bud to remember me when we have parted,--
Thorns and splendor, no sweetness, rose of the love that I
cherished!"
There he tore from its stalk the imperial flower of the thistle,
Tore, and gave to her, who took it with mocking obeisance,
Twined it in her hair, and said, with her subtle derision:
"You are a wiser man than I thought you could ever be, Clement,--
Sensible, almost. So! I'll try to forget and remember."
Lightly she took his arm, but on through the lane to the farm-house,
Mutely together they moved through the lonesome, odorous twilight.

II.

High on the far