The black pond in the wilderness of slag
Had caught his moody fancy, when the flame
From the blastfurnace, leaping in the night,
Blazed it a moment with reflected light,
Among the blasted hills that closed it round,
Shooting with angry red its sullen pitch.
And now it seemed, somehow, that he must drag
His weary body over mound on mound
Of craggy cinder, and by the reeking ditch
That led towards it — why, he could not tell.
Something there was that drew him; and he came
Suddenly on it; and, ere he was aware,
Had startled a dark figure, standing there
And staring down into the pond's pitch night,
Like the gaunt image of his own despair
Brooding forlornly on the brink of hell.

The figure turned: Why do you follow me?
Who are you? Answer! Then the furnace-light
Flared once again; and lit a woman's face,
Haggard and drawn and grey with agony.
Why must you follow? is there no escape
From life, then, even in this desert-place
Of death? He muttered — Nay! I followed not!
For I, too, am a fugitive, and sought ...
Death in the pond? She cried — You, too, sought death?
Again across the pond the red light shot
Angrily; and he saw, with dread agape,
That wild familiar face, just as she caught
His quaking hand in hers; and dragged him down
Towards the pond. He felt her icy breath
Upon his cheek; and knew that they must drown
Together. Now they sank. ...
Yet, when the day
Broke over the grey desert, still he lay
At the pond's edge alive. Soon the keen air
Revived him slowly from a senseless sleep;
And he arose, knowing that his despair
Lay drowned for ever in that pitchy deep.