Chapter XXVI

Again my dear was with me yesternight,
But now his brow was vexed, his eye was dim,
And he distressed and tired, and worn and white,
As when the pains of death gat hold on him.

On the bare deck of some tall phantom ship,
Tossed by rude waves, unnursed and lone he lay,
No tender hand to cool his fevered lip,
No voice love’s little language soft to say.

Amazed with grief to succour him I flew,
And made his hard bed smooth and warm and fair,
And one faint flickering smile of comfort drew,
Which pierced my heart, and still inhabits there.

Yet, waking, grieve I less, dear love! I see
How far more softly Death hath pillowed thee.