Ah, but how each loved each, Marquis!
  Here's the gallery they trod
  Both together, he her god,
  She his idol, — lend your rod,
Chamberlain! — ay, there they are — "Quis
  Separabit?" — plain those two
  Touching words come into view,
  Apposite for me and you!

Since they witness to incessant
  Love like ours: King Francis, he —
  Diane the adored one, she —
  Prototypes of you and me.
Everywhere is carved her Crescent
  With his Salamander-sign —
  Flame-fed creature: flame benign
  To itself or, if malign,

Only to the meddling curious,
  — So, be warned, Sir! Where's my head?
  How it wanders! What I said
  Merely meant — the creature, fed
Thus on flame, was scarce injurious
  Save to fools who woke its ire,
  Thinking fit to play with fire.
  'Tis the Crescent you admire?

Then, be Diane! I'll be Francis.
  Crescents change, — true! — wax and wane.
  Woman-like: male hearts retain
  Heat nor, once warm, cool again.
So, we figure — such our chance is —
  I as man and you as . . . What?
  Take offence? My Love forgot
  He plays woman, I do not?

I — the woman? See my habit.
  Ask my people! Anyhow,
  Be we what we may, one vow
  Binds us, male or female. Now, —
Stand, Sir! Read! "Quis separabit?"
  Half a mile of pictured way
  Past these palace-walls to-day
  Traversed, this I came to say.

You must needs begin to love me;
  First I hated, then, at best,
  — Have it so! — I acquiesced;
  Pure compassion did the rest.
From below thus raised above me,
  Would you, step by step, descend,
  Pity me, become my friend,
  Like me, like less, loathe at end?

That's the ladder's round you rose by!
  That — my own foot kicked away,
  Having raised you: let it stay,
  Serve you for retreating? Nay.
Close to me you climbed: as close by,
  Keep your station, though the peak
  Reached proves somewhat bare and bleak!
  Woman's strong if man is weak.

Keep here, loving me forever!
  Love's look, gesture, speech, I claim;
  Act love, lie love, all the same —
  Play as earnest were our game!
Lonely I stood long: 'twas clever
  When you climbed, before men's eyes,
  Spurned the earth and scaled the skies,
  Gained my peak and grasped your prize.

Here you stood, then, to men's wonder;
  Here you tire of standing? Kneel!
  Cure what giddiness you feel,
  This way! Do your senses reel?
Not unlikely! What rolls under?
  Yawning death in yon abyss
  Where the waters whirl and hiss
  Round more frightful peaks than this.

Should my buffet dash you thither. . . .
  But be sage! No watery grave
  Needs await you: seeming brave
  Kneel on safe, dear timid slave!
You surmised, when you climbed hither,
  Just as easy were retreat
  Should you tire, conceive unmeet
  Longer patience at my feet?

Me as standing, you as stooping, —
  Who arranged for each the pose?
  Lest men think us friends turned foes,
  Keep the attitude you chose!
Men are used to this same grouping —
  I and you like statues seen.
  You and I, no third between,
  Kneel and stand! That makes the scene.

Mar it — and one buffet . . . Pardon!
  Needless warmth — wise words in waste!
  'Twas prostration that replaced
  Kneeling, then? A proof of taste.
Crouch, not kneel, while I mount guard on
  Prostrate love — become no waif,
  No estray to waves that chafe
  Disappointed — love's so safe!

Waves that chafe? The idlest fancy!
  Peaks that scare? I think we know
  Walls enclose our sculpture: so
  Grouped, we pose in Fontainebleau.
Up now! Wherefore hesitancy?
  Arm in arm and cheek by cheek,
  Laugh with me at waves and peak!
  Silent still? Why, pictures speak.

See, where Juno strikes Ixion,
  Primatice speaks plainly! Pooh —
  Rather, Florentine Le Roux!
  I've lost head for who is who —
So it swims and wanders! Fie on
  What still proves me female! Here,
  By the staircase! — for we near
  That dark "Gallery of the Deer."

Look me in the eyes once! Steady!
  Are you faithful now as erst
  On that eve when we two first
  Vowed at Avon, blessed and cursed
Faith and falsehood? Pale already?
  Forward! Must my hand compel
  Entrance — this way? Exit — well.
  Somehow, somewhere. Who can tell?

What if to the self-same place in
  Rustic Avon, at the door
  Of the village church once more,
  Where a tombstone paves the floor
By that holy-water basin
  You appealed to — "As, below,
  This stone hides its corpse, e'en so
  I your secrets hide"? What ho!

Friends, my four! You, Priest, confess him!
  I have judged the culprit there:
  Execute my sentence! Care
  For no mail such cowards wear!
Done, Priest? Then, absolve and bless him!
  Now — you three, stab thick and fast,
  Deep and deeper! Dead at last?
  Thanks, friends — Father, thanks! Aghast?

What one word of his confession
  Would you tell me, though 1 lured
  With that royal crown abjured
  Just because its bars immured
Love too much? Love burst compression,
  Fled free, finally confessed
  All its secrets to that breast
  Whence . . . let Avon tell the rest!