WHERE'S AGNES?

Nay, if I had come back so,

And found her dead in her grave,

And if a friend I know

Had said, “Be strong, nor rave:

She lies there, dead below:

“I saw her, I who speak,

White, stiff, the face one blank:

The blue shade came to her cheek

Before they nailed the plank,

For she had been dead a week.”

Why, if he had spoken so,

I might have believed the thing,

Although her look, although

Her step, laugh, voice's ring

Lived in me still as they do.

But dead that other way,

Corrupted thus and lost?

That sort of worm in the clay?

I cannot count the cost,

That I should rise and pay.

My Agnes false? such shame?

She? Rather be it said

That the pure saint of her name

Has stood there in her stead,

And tricked you to this blame.

Her very gown, her cloak

Fell chastely: no disguise,

But expression! while she broke

With her clear grey morning-eyes

Full upon me and then spoke.

She wore her hair away

From her forehead,— like a cloud

Which a little wind in May

Peels off finely: disallowed

Though bright enough to stay.

For the heavens must have the place

To themselves, to use and shine in,

As her soul would have her face

To press through upon mine, in

That orb of angel grace.

Had she any fault at all,

‘ T was having none, I thought too —

There seemed a sort of thrall;

As she felt her shadow ought to

Fall straight upon the wall.

Her sweetness strained the sense

Of common life and duty;

And every day's expense

Of moving in such beauty

Required, almost, defence.

What good, I thought, is done

By such sweet things, if any?

This world smells ill i’ the sun

Though the garden-flowers are many,—

She is only one.

Can a voice so low and soft

Take open actual part

With Right,— maintain aloft

Pure truth in life or art,

Vexed always, wounded oft?—

She fit, with that fair pose

Which melts from curve to curve,

To stand, run, work with those

Who wrestle and deserve,

And speak plain without glose?

But I turned round on my fear

Defiant, disagreeing —

What if God has set her here

Less for action than for Being?—

For the eye and for the ear.

Just to show what beauty may,

Just to prove what music can,—

And then to die away

From the presence of a man,

Who shall learn, henceforth, to pray?

As a door, left half ajar

In heaven, would make him think

How heavenly-different are

Things glanced at through the chink,

Till he pined from near to far.

That door could lead to hell?

That shining merely meant

Damnation? What! She fell

Like a woman, who was sent

Like an angel, by a spell?

She, who scarcely trod the earth,

Turned mere dirt? My Agnes,— mine!

Called so! felt of too much worth

To be used so! too divine

To be breathed near, and so forth!

Why, I dared not name a sin

In her presence: I went round,

Clipped its name and shut it in

Some mysterious crystal sound,—

Changed the dagger for the pin.

Now you name herself that word?

O my Agnes! O my saint!

Then the great joys of the Lord

Do not last? Then all this paint

Runs off nature? leaves a board?

Who's dead here? No, not she:

Rather I! or whence this damp

Cold corruption's misery?

While my very mourners stamp

Closer in the clods on me.

And my mouth is full of dust

Till I cannot speak and curse —

Speak and damn him... “Blame's unjust”?

Sin blots out the universe,

All because she would and must?

She, my white rose, dropping off

The high rose-tree branch! and not

That the night-wind blew too rough,

Or the noon-sun burnt too hot,

But, that being a rose —‘ t was enough!

Then henceforth may earth grow trees!

No more roses!— hard straight lines

To score lies out! none of these

Fluctuant curves, but firs and pines,

Poplars, cedars, cypresses!