It is mine," I said.
Said the friend of my bosom, "Yours, no doubt,
The portrait was, till a month ago,
When this suffering angel took that out,
And placed mine there, I know."
"This woman, she loved me well," said I.
"A month ago," said my friend to me;
"And in your throat," I groaned, "you lie!"
He answered ... "Let us see."
"Enough!" I returned, "let the dead decide:
And whosesoever the portrait prove,
His shall it be, when the cause is tried,
Where Death is arraigned by Love."
We found the portrait there in its place;
We opened it, by the tapers' shine;
The gems were all unchanged; the face
Was--neither his nor mine.
"One nail drives out another, at least!
The face of the portrait there," I cried,
"Is our friend's, the Raphael-faced young priest,
Who confessed her when she died."
The setting is all of rubies red,
And pearls which a Peri might have kept;
For each ruby there my heart hath bled;
For each pearl my eyes have wept.
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