Toward starless morning, when deep night had bowed
On slumber's pillow my unhappy head,
Through the dim room it drifted like a cloud —
And swayed in silence by my lonely bed.

What had they done to you, that dumbly so
You covered with your hands your quiet face —
Dear, out of kindness, that I might not know
What horror there had wrought its dark disgrace!

It was those hands, too passionately, too well
Loved, that betrayed you — O most piteous guest!
And to my heart, in the intolerable
Rage of despair, that shadow I had pressed,

Mingling in a shrill cry our grief supreme —
My sweet — my pretty! But, as I had drawn
That anguish to my arms, they clasped a dream;
And heaven glimmered with the approaching dawn.