What the stupid sense of the grown-up man
Urges, she cannot perceive; but prefers
The simple faith of her own sweet plan,
And the brothers in Heaven still are hers.
The very last day that Harry was here
I read him those verses, and Harry smil'd;
And we held some converse, divinely dear,
Which was all about that dear little child.
Is it for this that I think of it now?
Is it for this he let seven words fall?
O pulses are beating behind my brow,
And I think my heart is not beating at all!
And my brain, it keeps whirling round and round,
Like a sing-song wheel through a ship at night;
And the seven words that constantly sound
Are 'you shall follow me, sweet,' and 'I'll write.'
I wonder if I have been going mad,
In the strange wild world I am living in?
I think that I have--I hop'd that I had--
For I weary with wondering, what is sin?
There's blood on your hand--there's blood on your soul--
O lily-white hand--soul noble and true!
You murder'd him where the blue waters roll,
And he set the seal of his death on you.
I have sat so happily by your side,
I have lain so tranquilly on your breast;
But I think that you died, and I think that I died--
And death is the end of all, and the best.
It was God who created men and time;
And a better than you He could not need;
So if you did it, it was not a crime,
And if 'twas a crime, you did not the deed.
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