The sky is like an opal sea,
The air is like the breath of kine,
But oh her face is white, and she
Leans faint to see a lifted sign,--
To see two hands lift up and wave
To see a face so white with woe,
So ghastly, hollow, white as though
It had that moment left the grave.
Her sweet face at that ghostly sign,
Her fair face in her weight of hair,
Is like a white dove drowning there,--
A white dove drowned in Tuscan wine.
He tries to stand, to stand erect.
'Tis gold, 'tis gold that holds him down!
And soul and body both must drown,--
Two millstones tied about his neck.
Now once again his piteous face
Is raised to her face reaching there.
He prays such piteous, silent prayer
As prays a dying man for grace.
It is not good to see him strain
To lift his hands, to gasp, to try
To speak. His parched lips are so dry
Their sight is as a living pain.
I think that rich man down in hell
Some like this old man with his gold,--
To gasp and gasp perpetual
Like to this minute I have told.