[SPAM] d in her

Those long shafts, and see none there. . . . Maybe, maybe: he goes--will
come again one day; and _that_ at last may prove itself the day when
"men are pure, and women brave." + + + + + We pass from the unearthly
atmosphere of _Numpholeptos_--well-nigh the most abstract of all
Browning's poems--to the vivid, astonishing realism of _Too Late_. Edith
is dead, and the man who loved her and failed to win her, is musing upon
the transmutation of all values in his picture of life which has been
made by the tidings. Not till now had he fully realised his absorption
in the thought of her: "the woman I loved so well, who married the
other." He had been wont to "sit and look at his life." That life, until
he met her, had rippled and run like a river. But he met her and loved
her and lost her--and it was as if a great stone had been cast by a
devil into his life's mid-current. The waves strove about it--the waves
that had "come for their joy, and found this horrible stone full-tide."
The stone thwarted God. But the lover has had two ways of thinking about
it. Though the waves, in a

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