Page:Demeter and other poems (IA demeterotherpoem00tennrich).pdf/82

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THE RING
His fingers were so stiffen'd by the frostOf seven and ninety winters, that he scrawl'dA 'Miriam' that might seem a 'Muriel';And Muriel claim'd and open'd what I meantFor Miriam, took the ring, and flaunted itBefore that other whom I loved and love.'A mountain stay'd me here, a minster there,A galleried palace, or a battlefield,Where stood the sheaf of Peace: but—coming home—And on your Mother's birthday—all but yours—A week betwixt—and when the tower as nowWas all ablaze with crimson to the roof,And all ablaze too plunging in the lakeHead-foremost—who were those that stood betweenThe tower and that rich phantom of the tower?Muriel and Miriam, each in white, and likeMay-blossoms in mid autumn—was it they?
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