Well, I've met her again — at the Mission.
She'd told me to see her no more;
It was not a command — a petition;
I'd granted it once before.
Yes, granted it, hoping she'd write me.
Repenting her virtuous freak —
Subdued myself daily and nightly
For the better part of a week.
And then (‘ twas my duty to spare her
The shame of recalling me ) I
Just sought her again to prepare her
For an everlasting good-bye.
O, that evening of bliss — shall I ever
Forget it?— with Shakespeare and Poe!
She said, when‘ twas ended: “You're never
To see me again. And now go.”
As we parted with kisses‘ twas human
And natural for me to smile
As I thought, “She's in love, and a woman:
She'll send for me after a while.”
But she did n't; and so — well, the Mission
Is fine, picturesque and gray;
It's an excellent place for contrition —
And sometimes she passes that way.
That's how it occurred that I met her,
And that's ah there is to tell —
Except that I'd like to forget her
Calm way of remarking: “I'm well.”
It was hardly worth while, all this keying
My soul to such tensions and stirs
To learn that her food was agreeing
With that little stomach of hers.