,
And heard things, that were strangely meaning this,--
Telling me strangely that life can be all
One power undisturbed, one perfect honour,--
Waters at noonday sounding among hills,
Or moonlight lost among vast curds of cloud;--
But never knew I it is only Love
Can rule the noise of life to heavenly quiet.
Ah, Jean, if thou wilt love me, thou shalt have
Never from me upon thy purity
The least touch of that eager baseness, known,
For shame's disguising, by the name of Love
Most wickedly; thou shalt not need to fear
Aught from my love, for surely thou shalt know
It is a love that almost fears to love thee.

IV

_The Public House_. MORRIS _and_ JEAN.

_Jean_.
O, you are come again!

_Morris_.
Has he been here,
That blackguard, with some insolence to you?

_Jean_.
Who?

_Morris_.
Why, that Hamish.

_Jean_.
Hamish? No, not he.

_Morris_.
I thought--you seemed so breathless--

_Jean_.
But you've come
Again! May I not be glad of your coming?
Yes, and a little breathless?--Did you come
Only because you thought I might be bullied?

_Morris_.
O, no, no, no, Only for you I came.

_Jean_.
And that's what I was hoping.

_Morris_.
If you could know
How it has been with me, since I saw you!

_Jean_.

What can I know of your mind?--For my own
Is hard enough to know,--save that I'm glad
You've come again,--and that I should have cried
If you'd not kept your word.

_Morris_.
My word?--to see
Hamish does nothing to you?

_Jean_.
The fiend take Hamish!
Do you think I'ld be afraid of him?--It's you
I ought to be afraid of, were I wise.

_Morris_.
Good God, she's crying!

_Jean_.
Cannot you understand?

_Morris_.
O darling, is it so? I prayed for this
All night, and yet it's unbelievable.

_Jean_.
You too, Morris?

_Morris_.
There's nothing living in me
But love for you, my sweetheart.

_Jean_.
And you are mine,
My sweetheart!--And now, Morris, now you know
Why you are the man that ought to frighten me!--
Morris, I love you so!

_Morris_.
O, but better than this,
Jean, you must love me. You must never think
I'm like the heartless men you wait on here,
Whose love is all a hunger that cares naught
How hatefully endured its feasting must be
By her who fills it, so it be well glutted!

_Jean_.
I did not say I was afraid of you;
But only that, perhaps, I ought to be.

_Morris_.
No, no, you never ought. My love is one