I have seen him once again,
There in the throng with his wife
( An eagle matched with a pitiful wren! )
Bitter in sooth has his portion been —
Chained to a clog for life!
Strange that our eyes as of yore should meet
And hold each other a breathless space,
That the dawn-light of old should illumine his face,
That the lips that were stern should an instant grow sweet,
Touched with the old-time tender grace.
But his eyes were haggard and old with pain
( Traitors to thwart his resolute will! )
They told me the struggle was vain — all vain!
He loves me — loves me still.