At Waking

   When night was lifting,
And dawn had crept under its shade,
   Amid cold clouds drifting
Dead-white as a corpse outlaid,
           With a sudden scare
           I seemed to behold
           My Love in bare
           Hard lines unfold.

   Yea, in a moment,
An insight that would not die
   Killed her old endowment
Of charm that had capped all nigh,
           Which vanished to none
           Like the gilt of a cloud,
           And showed her but one
           Of the common crowd.

   She seemed but a sample
Of earth’s poor average kind,
   Lit up by no ample
Enrichments of mien or mind.
           I covered my eyes
           As to cover the thought,
           And unrecognize
           What the morn had taught.

   O vision appalling
When the one believed-in thing
   Is seen falling, falling,
With all to which hope can cling.
           Off: it is not true;
           For it cannot be
           That the prize I drew
           Is a blank to me!

WEYMOUTH, 1869.