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139
TOO LATE!
I
What, dead—quite dead? And can you hear no prayerAlready? Have you in so short a space
Gone so far from your old abiding-place?
And is this all you have left me, this—to bear
The still accusings of that dear marred face?
II
How they make bitterer all my grief than gall!Oh, loving eyes, for ever closed on me;
Worn face that look'st so unreproachfully!
Too late, too late, I would I could recall
Every unloving word I have said to thee!
III
Have I been blind, never to recogniseThe wounds I made till now? Ah, now I know
My cruel work in all that dumb great woe!
I see how piteous look thy poor closed eyes,
And know that it is I have made them so.
140
IV
Oh why, why did you love me all these years?Why not grow cruel to me as I to you?
Had both been false, neither had had to rue
One thing, nor shed, as I do, hard vain tears.
Why have you taunted me by being so true?
V
Why have you let the whole remorse be mine?Thy most sad mouth, why did it never say
One counter-word of anger? Lovingly,
Why did you let each patient, painful line,
Deepen in moanless silence day by day?
VI
Why will tears never come, till they must failOf ease and comfort, and can only sear?
Why am I moaning now to a deaf ear—
Moaning, as if my words could ever avail
To make one deep-grooved pain-line shallower?
An. æt. 20.
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