No secrets and no sadness came,
Nor wisest will of destiny;
Encounters always left the same
Harsh print of battle's enmity.
This morning yet I guessed the hour,
That minute when you would return;
And my contorted hands did burn
In prickly, faint fear of your power.
The tablecloth, so bright in hue,
Was crumpled by dry fingers mine;
And it was then that I first knew
How baleful was this earth divine.