words keep me alive--
You said 'you shall follow me,' and 'I'll write.'

They stealthily talk; I hear what they say--
Sharply she hears who each syllable dreads--
Glancing at me in significant way,
Touching their foreheads and shaking their heads.

'Mad?'--'not exactly--bewilder'd--confus'd;
Thoughts turn'd astray by grief's terrible force;
Not even by love is murder excus'd;
She cannot believe that he did it, of course.
She thinks him a hero, and so loves on;
Reason enthron'd would annihilate this;
Love would have nothing to nestle upon,
Did she perceive him the sinner he is.'

* * * * *

Words striking my brain like sunshine on ice,
Bursting the bulwarks that kept the flood in;
Is love only madness? Will reason suffice
To crucify love at the presence of sin?

Reason comes back with all honours she had,
Calmly accepting my life as it is;
I will not go mad--I dare not go mad--
I must _prove_ love is not treason like this!

Is he not all that I thought him? Be still
O treacherous heart--then _you_ were to blame:
I married my Harry for good or ill,
And through good and ill I love him the same.

If God died for us, and lay in a grave,
Leaving His mansions of glory for this;
It must have been from a longing to save
Such a noble sinner as Harry is.

In His own image created He him,
And He called man 'good' on the virgin sod;
And when He beheld His image grow dim,
He died to redeem it--the gracious God!

Rebuking myself with an angry pain--
What was I wishing for? What would I have?
A paragon fram'd by my shallow brain,
And not the sinner God died to save?

I have _driven_ madness out of my brain,
Studying life with intolerant eyes;
Praying and weeping and praying again--
Earth is good for nothing but prayers and sighs.

We all are made up of follies and faults,
That, if time but serv'd, would lead us to crime;
And for every time my darling halts,
I am sure I have halted fifty times!

I am not blinded or prejudiced here;
I have sought the truth and found what I sought;
I know you were wrong, my Harry, my dear;
You should not have play'd and quarrell'd and fought.

Had you been _here_ on that evening--a cry
Comes out of my heart as _one_ grace I implore:
Let me not think of our evenings, or I
Shall suddenly die, and see him no more.

I know you