Under a hawthorn bush I sat,
The air was hot and dry.
Over the beacon came the clouds
Yellow and thundery.

Birds twittered, and were still again;
The wind blew wild, then dropped:
It was as if the blood of earth
In nature's veins had stopped.

As if some fierce vindictive power,
Felt but not understood,
Hovered above the cowering earth
In threatening masterhood.

When suddenly I heard the sound
Of footsteps on the road;
The steps were slow, as though one walked
Under a heavy load.

The man was talking to himself,
But when he saw me near
He stopped, and then I saw a look
Of anger and of fear

Burning out of his twitching eyes,
Lighting a ghastly face,
Where horror, pain and wickedness
Strove for the foremost place.

But there was something in his look
Which seemed to say to me,
“I am in hell, and you look on
With curiosity.”

At that I ran and took his hand,
Said, “Friend, tell me your pain.”
“Yes,” he replied, “I'd like to tell
What won't be told again.”

We sat beneath the hawthorn bush,
While lightning in the sky
Made hieroglyphs that flashed their shapes
Upon the watcher's eye;

And round the murky heavens roamed
Thunder, a beast of prey,
Now roaring overhead, and now
Wandering far away.

“Three days ago I loved a maid,
Her heart was sweet and clean:
Now it's a quivering mass of lies,
Devilish, dark, obscene.

“Stranger!” he said, and held my arm
As in a vice of steel,
“Has't come to you—the love that makes
Your inmost spirit kneel?

“The love that weds: that leaves mere flesh
Light as a gossamer?
Once, in her eyes I looked and saw
That shining love in her.

“I see it now! It's like a star
Whose brightness beckons you;
And though you shut your eyes you know
That nothing else is true.”

The man had shut his eyes, and then
He opened them and said,
“Because I know she once saw that,
To-morrow she'll be dead.

“And O, that pale-faced simpering lad,
Her ready willing slave!
These hands will clutch, like this, until
They bring him to the grave.”

“And then?” I said. He looked at me.
“And then?” I said again.
“Then I shall see the earth and sky
Washed of their filthy stain.”

“No,” I replied, “you'll see the clouds
Now dark with rain, drop blood;
Nor all the rivers in the world
Will bear away that flood.

“Now is the hour God holds the scales
Of justice—weighing you;
Your love, not hers, He seeks to find
If it be false or true.”

The rain swept down and beat the earth
Like flails a threshing-floor,
But through the riven clouds there peeped
(As it had been a door

Into the spotless joy of heaven)
A tiny gap of blue;
And as I gazed at it, I felt
The stranger watched it too.

A while it neither waxed nor waned,
Then, as a bud expands
Casting its outer petals back
Until revealed it stands,

The virgin sky threw back her robes
And laughed for heavenly glee,
While as a lover to his bride
The sun came tenderly.

We had been silent. Then I said,
“Your love is like the sky:
Storm-clouds may seem to blot it out
In anger, utterly;

“But, an you love not like the beast
That ravens for its prey,
The clouds will burst, until the sky
Reveals a fairer day.

“What would you make of Love? A serf,
Only to do your will?
A heady cup where one may go
And grossly drink his fill?

“By custom bound, by law hedged in,
A thing of ‘shall’ and ‘must’?
O, by this road, how steep the slope
That leads to loathly lust!

“Nothing that once has lived shall die.
If you should love her still,
Then were a joy new-born in you,
A peace immune from ill:

“A self-dependent power that shines
As shines the sun above,
Whereto the feeblest shoot on earth
Responds with quickening love.

“But an you hate, it were as if
The sun should quench its light,
Because the moon wields for a span
Dominion over night.”

Long time we sat in silence there;
Then suddenly he rose,
And looking in my eyes exclaimed:
“It's hard, man—hard—God knows.”

And as his footsteps died away
I heard his piteous cry:
“O little Love! My little Love!
I want you, but good-bye!”