At midnight, in the room where he lay dead

   Whom in his life I had never clearly read,

I thought if I could peer into that citadel

   His heart, I should at last know full and well

   What hereto had been known to him alone,

   Despite our long sit-out of years foreflown,

“And if,” I said, “I do this for his memory’s sake,

   It would not wound him, even if he could wake.”

   So I bent over him.  He seemed to smile

   With a calm confidence the whole long while

That I, withdrawing his heart, held it and, bit by bit,

   Perused the unguessed things found written on it.

   It was inscribed like a terrestrial sphere

   With quaint vermiculations close and clear—

His graving.  Had I known, would I have risked the stroke

   Its reading brought, and my own heart nigh broke!

   Yes, there at last, eyes opened, did I see

   His whole sincere symmetric history;

There were his truth, his simple singlemindedness,

   Strained, maybe, by time’s storms, but there no less.

   There were the daily deeds from sun to sun

   In blindness, but good faith, that he had done;

There were regrets, at instances wherein he swerved

   (As he conceived) from cherishings I had deserved.

   There were old hours all figured down as bliss—

   Those spent with me—(how little had I thought this!)

There those when, at my absence, whether he slept or waked,

   (Though I knew not ’twas so!) his spirit ached.

   There that when we were severed, how day dulled

   Till time joined us anew, was chronicled:

And arguments and battlings in defence of me

   That heart recorded clearly and ruddily.

   I put it back, and left him as he lay

   While pierced the morning pink and then the gray

Into each dreary room and corridor around,

   Where I shall wait, but his step will not sound.