VIII

She came to the village church,

And sat by a pillar alone;

An angel watching an urn

Wept over her, carved in stone;

And once, but once, she lifted her eyes,

And suddenly, sweetly, strangely blush'd

To find they were met by my own;

And suddenly, sweetly, my heart beat stronger

And thicker, until I heard no longer

The snowy-banded, dilettante,

Delicate-handed priest intone;

And thought, is it pride, and mused and sigh'd

'No surely, now it cannot be pride.'