The Winged Beetle

46 THE TWO SECRETS . . . So there she used to lie. May be Correggio’s Antiope Best paints you how she lay. And I Loved her, and passed the matter by ; Ending at last, one may dare say, In thinking that those eyes of grey Meant naught, suspected naught, were blind, Expressed the vacancy behind. So life went on. One winter day So silent and so still she lay That I took cold, regarding her. I rose, I wrapped myself in fur ; Then came to her, my thought untold Being that she, too, might be cold. I laid my hand upon her breast. Cold ! Icy cold ! Ah you have guessed. Right. She was dead, quite dead. And so You see, friend, I shall never know. She kept her secret. —Leave me alone ! Or—I shall hardly keep my own !