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WOE, he went galloping into the war, Clara, Clara! Let us two dream: shall he ’scape with a scar? Scarcely disfigurement, rather a grace Making for manhood which nowise we mar: See, while I kiss it, the flush on his face— Rosny, Rosny! Light does he laugh: “With your love in my soul”— (Clara, Clara!) “How could I other than—sound, safe, and whole— Cleave who opposed me asunder, yet stand Scatheless beside you, as, touching love’s goal, Who won the race kneels, craves reward at your hand— Rosny, Rosny?”
Ay, but if certain who envied should see |