Not those who'd pluck your mystery out,
Yet never saw your last redoubt;
Whose cleverness would kill the song
Dead at your heart, then prove you wrong.
Give me those eyes I used to know
Where thoughts like angels come and go;
--Not glittering eyes, nor dimmed by books,
But eyes through which the deep soul looks.
Give me the quiet hands and face
That never strove for fame and place;
The soul whose love, so many a day
Has brought the heavens about my way._
VII
_Was it a dream, that low dim-lighted room
With that dark periwigged phantom of Dean Swift
Writing, beside a fire, to one he loved,--
Beautiful Catherine Barton, once the light
Of Newton's house, and his half-sister's child?_
Yes, Catherine Barton, I am brave enough
To face this pale, unhappy, wistful ghost
Of our departed friendship.
It was I
Savage and mad, a snarling kennel of sins,
"Your Holiness," as you called me, with that smile
Which even your ghost would quietly turn on me--
Who raised it up. It has no terrors, dear.
And I shall never lay it while I live.
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