Half saint this dead girl was; yet her tight will Rocked his dull house down to its doors.
To think How near at times she came to the dark brink Of being a devil, makes him wonder still.
She was as cool as brambles after rain,
Clear of the dust of vulgar roads, and one—
Such delicate petals having need of sun—
To be forgiven, and to be loved again.
And like a bramble flower was her face,
With flash of fire beneath.
He hated strife,
So ran back to his grey books on a shelf: Yet can he set none other in her place.
She made a stir about the stems of life,
Kept April in him, being that herself.