What can it mean for me? What have I done to her? I, in our season of love as a sun to her: She, all its heaven of silvery, numberful Stars and its moon shining golden and slumberful;
Who on my life, that was thorny and lowery, Gazed — and made beautiful; smiled — and made flowery. She, to my heart and my soul a divinity! She, who — I dreamed!— seemed my spirit's affinity!—
What have I done to her? what have I done? What can she mean by this?— what have I said to her! I, who have idolized, worshipped, and pled to her; Sung for her, laughed for her, sorrowed and sighed for her;
Lived for her only; would gladly have died for her! See!— she has written me thus! she has written me.... Sooner would dagger or serpent had smitten me!— Would you had shriveled ere ever you'd read of it,
Eyes, that are wide to the bitterest dread of it!— What have I said to her? what have I said? What shall I make of it? I who am trembling, Dreading to lose her.— A moth, the dissembling
Flame of the candle attracts with its guttering, Flattering on till its body lies fluttering, Scorched in the summer night.— Foolish, importunate, Why did'st thou leave the cool flowers, unfortunate!—
Such has she been to me making me such to her, Slaying me, saying I never was much to her!— What shall I make of it? what can I make? Love, in thy everglades, moaning and motionless,
Look, I have fallen; the evil is potionless. I,— with no thought but the heav'n that did lock us in,— Set naked feet‘ mid the cottonmouth, moccasin, Under the roses, the Cherokee, eyeing me.—
I,— in the sky with the egrets that, flying me, Loosened like blooms from magnolias, rose slenderly, White and pale pink; where the mocking-bird tenderly Sang, making vistas of mosses melodious;—
Wandered unheeding my steps in the odious Ooze and the venom. I followed the wiry Violet curve of thy star falling fiery — So was I lost in night! thus am undone!
Have I not told to her — living alone for her — Purposed unfoldments of deeds I had sown for her Here in the soil of my soul? their variety Endless — and ever she answered with piety.
See! it has come to this — all the tale's suavity At the ninth chapter grows wretched to gravity; Cruel as death all our beautiful history — Close it!— the finis is more than a mystery.—
Yes, I will go to her; yes, I will speak.
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