Then while he sat there, with his flushing cheeks,
Himself defending thus,—I, charm’d the while,—
The door flew open, and behind it stood
My father and the priest.
Then had they said
But one harsh word, it had not been so sad.
But kind they were, too kind. Ah, sister dear,
Have you not felt how much more pain it gives,
This pain from kindness? Love is like the sun:
It brightens life, but yet may parch it too.
And wind may blow, and man may screen himself;
And rain may fall, and he may shelter find;
And frost may chill, and he may clothing wear;
But what can ward off sun-stroke?—Love,
Its first degree may bring fertility;
Its next one barrenness. It lights; it blights.
The flames of heaven, flash’d far and spent, turn smoke
To glut the gloom of hell.
Words kind as these
(We could have braced ourselves against them else)
Threw wide, like spells, each passage to our hearts
That caution should have guarded. “We knew not
Our own minds, poor young pair,” they said. “At least,
Our love could wait: meantime, whose love could claim
Our trust, like theirs whose treasure lay in us?”