THE TWENTY-EIGHTH DAY 
 
“ But I perceive in you so excellent a touch 
of modesty that you will not extort from me 
what I am willing to keep in.” 
Twelfth-Night. 
 
A curious conflict this of love and fear, 
Honour and lust, and truth and trust beguiled ; 
One in the semblance of a rose-bright child :— 
The other in a shape more gross and clear, 
A fiercer woman-figure crowned severe 
With garlands woven of scourges, but whose wild 
Breast beat with splendour of sin, whose looks were mild, 
Hiding the cruel smile behind a tear. 
 
So she :  “ I now you never would ; ” yet did 
Such acts that no end otherwise might be. 
So I :  “ I will not ever pluck the flower ; ” 
Yet strayed enchanted on the lawns forbid, 
And bathed enamoured in the secret sea, 
Both knowing our words were spoken—for an hour. 
 
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