Where’s Agnes?

I.
Nay, if I had come back so,
&nbspAnd found her dead in her grave,
And if a friend I know
&nbspHad said, “Be strong, nor rave:
She lies there, dead below:

II.
“I saw her, I who speak,
&nbspWhite, stiff, the face one blank:
The blue shade came to her cheek
&nbspBefore they nailed the plank,
For she had been dead a week.”

III.
Why, if he had spoken so,
&nbspI might have believed the thing,
Although her look, although
&nbspHer step, laugh, voice’s ring
Lived in me still as they do.

IV.
But dead that other way,
&nbspCorrupted thus and lost?
That sort of worm in the clay?
&nbspI cannot count the cost,
That I should rise and pay.

V.
My Agnes false? such shame?
&nbspShe? Rather be it said
That the pure saint of her name
&nbspHas stood there in her stead,
And tricked you to this blame.

VI.
Her very gown, her cloak
&nbspFell chastely: no disguise,
But expression! while she broke
&nbspWith her clear grey morning-eyes
Full upon me and then spoke.

VII.
She wore her hair away
&nbspFrom her forehead,—like a cloud
Which a little wind in May
&nbspPeels off finely: disallowed
Though bright enough to stay.

VIII.
For the heavens must have the place
&nbspTo themselves, to use and shine in,
As her soul would have her face
&nbspTo press through upon mine, in
That orb of angel grace.

IX.
Had she any fault at all,
&nbsp’T was having none, I thought too—
There seemed a sort of thrall;
&nbspAs she felt her shadow ought to
Fall straight upon the wall.

X.
Her sweetness strained the sense
&nbspOf common life and duty;
And every day’s expense
&nbspOf moving in such beauty
Required, almost, defence.

XI.
What good, I thought, is done
&nbspBy such sweet things, if any?
This world smells ill i’ the sun
&nbspThough the garden-flowers are many,—
She is only one.

XII.
Can a voice so low and soft
&nbspTake open actual part
With Right,—maintain aloft
&nbspPure truth in life or art,
Vexed always, wounded oft?—

XIII.
She fit, with that fair pose
&nbspWhich melts from curve to curve,
To stand, run, work with those
&nbspWho wrestle and deserve,
And speak plain without glose?

XIV.
But I turned round on my fear
&nbspDefiant, disagreeing—
What if God has set her here
&nbspLess for action than for Being?—
For the eye and for the ear.

XV.
Just to show what beauty may,
&nbspJust to prove what music can,—
And then to die away
&nbspFrom the presence of a man,
Who shall learn, henceforth, to pray?

XVI.
As a door, left half ajar
&nbspIn heaven, would make him think
How heavenly-different are
&nbspThings glanced at through the chink,
Till he pined from near to far.

XVII.
That door could lead to hell?
&nbspThat shining merely meant
Damnation? What! She fell
&nbspLike a woman, who was sent
Like an angel, by a spell?

XVIII.
She, who scarcely trod the earth,
&nbspTurned mere dirt? My Agnes,—mine!
Called so! felt of too much worth
&nbspTo be used so! too divine
To be breathed near, and so forth!

XIX.
Why, I dared not name a sin
&nbspIn her presence: I went round,
Clipped its name and shut it in
&nbspSome mysterious crystal sound,—
Changed the dagger for the pin.

XX.
Now you name herself that word?
&nbspO my Agnes! O my saint!
Then the great joys of the Lord
&nbspDo not last? Then all this paint
Runs off nature? leaves a board?

XXI.
Who’s dead here? No, not she:
&nbspRather I! or whence this damp
Cold corruption’s misery?
&nbspWhile my very mourners stamp
Closer in the clods on me.

XXII.
And my mouth is full of dust
&nbspTill I cannot speak and curse—
Speak and damn him ... “Blame’s unjust”?
&nbspSin blots out the universe,
All because she would and must?

XXIII.
She, my white rose, dropping off
&nbspThe high rose-tree branch! and not
That the night-wind blew too rough,
&nbspOr the noon-sun burnt too hot,
But, that being a rose—’t was enough!

XXIV.
Then henceforth may earth grow trees!
&nbspNo more roses!—hard straight lines
To score lies out! none of these
&nbspFluctuant curves, but firs and pines,
Poplars, cedars, cypresses!