She loves him not, they say,
Save for his lands and gold;
She is narrow, selfish, cold,
Stabbing and wounding his soul each day,
Growing further and further away
From the heart it was hers to hold.
Yet not all blameless he,
A woman is quick to feel
What man would fain conceal;
Surely she can but see
That naught to his life is she,
Nay — nor can ever be!
I am happier — happier far — than he;
He is meshed in a galling silken hold,
Bound with a jewelled band of gold;
While I, at least, am free.
And I know what his daily life must be.
Linked with a nature paltry, slight,
He with his generous, kingly soul,
Stung and goaded past all control
By a thousand petty barbs of venom and spite.
Once, but once have we met,
And we spoke of trivial things,
Of the changes a twelvemonth brings,
Of late Summer, lingering yet...
( Ah, how should a heart that has loved forget? )
Traitors ever to thwart his will
His eyes confirm what I half divine.
A bitter, bootless victory mine,
He cannot choose but to love me still!