�A stone upon her heart and head,
But no name written on that stone;
Sweet neighbours whisper low instead,
This sinner was a loving one.�
– Mrs. Browning.
�Tis a nameless stone that stands at your head,
The gusts in the gloomy gorges whirl
Brown leaves and red till they cover your bed,
Now I trust that your sleep is a sound one, girl!
I said in my wrath, when his shadow cross�d
From your garden gate to your cottage door,
�What does it matter for one soul lost?
Millions of souls have been lost before.�
Yet I warn�d you, ah! but my words came true,
�Perhaps some day you will find him out.�
He who was not worthy to loosen your shoe,
Does his conscience therefore prick him? I doubt.
You laughed and were deaf to my warning voice,
Blush�d and were blind to his cloven hoof,
You have had your chance, you have taken your choice
How could I help you, standing aloof?
He has prosper�d well with the world, he says
I am mad, if so, and if he be sane,
I, at least, give God thanksgiving and praise
That there lies between us one difference plain.
– – – – – –
You in your beauty above me bent
In the pause of a wild west country ball,
Spoke to me, touched me without intent,
Made me your servant for once and all.
Light laughter rippled your rose-red lip,
And you swept my cheek with a shining curl,
That stray�d from your shoulder�s snowy tip,
Now I pray that your sleep is a sound one, girl!
From a long way off to look at your charms
Made my blood run redder in every vein,
And he, he has held you long in his arms,
And has kiss�d you over and over again.
Is it well that he keeps well out of my way?
If we met, he and I, we alone, we two,
Would I give him one moment�s grace to pray?
Not I, for the sake of the soul he slew.
A life like a shuttlecock may be toss�d
With the hand of fate for a battledore;
But it matters much for your sweet soul lost,
As much as a million souls and more.
And I know that if, here or there, alone,
I found him, fairly and face to face,
Having slain his body, I would slay my own,
That my soul to Satan his soul might chase.
He hardens his heart in the public way,
Who am I? I am but a nameless churl;
But God will put all things straight some day,
Till then may your sleep be a sound one, girl!