NE ME TANGITO"This man . . . would have known who and what manner of woman this is: for
she is a sinner."—S. Luke vii. 39.
ODD, You should fear the touch,The first that I was ever ready to let go,I, that have not cared muchFor any toy I could not break and throwTo the four winds when I had done with it. You need not fear the touch,Blindest of all the things that I have cared for very muchIn the whole gay, unbearable, amazing show.
True—for a moment—no, dull heart, you were too small,Thinking to hide the ugly doubt behind that hurried puzzled little smile:Only the shade, was it, you saw? but still the shade of something vile:Oddest of all!So I will tell you this. Last night, in sleep,Walking through April fields I heard the far-off bleat of sheepAnd from the trees about the farm, not very high,A flight of pigeons fluttered up into an early evening mackerel sky.Someone stood by and it was you:About us both a great wind blew.My breast was baredBut sheltered by my hairI found you, suddenly, lying there,Tugging with tiny fingers at my heart, no more afraid:The weakest thing, the most divineThat ever yet was mine,Something that I had strangely made,So then it seemed—The child for which I had not looked or ever cared,Of whom, before, I had never dreamed.
