SEPARATION

One decade and a half since first we came

With hearts aflame

Into Love's Paradise, as man and mate;

And now we separate.

Soon, all too soon,

Waned the white splendour of our honeymoon.

We saw it fading; but we did not know

How bleak the path would be when once its glow

Was wholly gone.

And yet we two were forced to follow on -

Leagues, leagues apart while ever side by side.

Darker and darker grew the loveless weather,

Darker the way,

Until we could not stay

Longer together.

Now that all anger from our hearts has died,

And love has flown far from its ruined nest,

To find sweet shelter in another breast,

Let us talk calmly of our past mistakes,

And of our faults; if only for the sakes

Of those with whom our futures will be cast.

You shall speak first.

A woman would speak last -

Tell me my first grave error as a wife.

Inertia. My young veins were rife

With manhood's ardent blood; and love was fire

Within me. But you met my strong desire

With lips like frozen rose leaves — chaste, so chaste

That all your splendid beauty seemed but waste

Of love's materials. Then of that beauty

Which had so pleased my sight

You seemed to take no care; you felt no duty

To keep yourself an object of delight

For lover's-eyes; and appetite

And indolence soon wrought

Their devastating changes. You were not

The woman I had sworn to love and cherish.

If love is starved, what can love do but perish?

Now will you speak of my first fatal sin

And all that followed, even as I have done?

I must begin

With the young quarter of our honeymoon.

You are but one

Of countless men who take the priceless boon

Of woman's love and kill it at the start,

Not wantonly but blindly. Woman's passion

Is such a subtle thing — woof of her heart,

Web of her spirit; and the body's part

Is to play ever but the lesser role

To her white soul.

Seized in brute fashion,

It fades like down on wings of butterflies;

Then dies.

So my love died.

Next, on base Mammon's cross you nailed my pride,

Making me ask for what was mine by right:

Until, in my own sight,

I seemed a helpless slave

To whom the master gave

A grudging dole. Oh, yes, at times gifts showered

Upon your chattel; but I was not dowered

By generous love. Hate never framed a curse

Or placed a cruel ban

That so crushed woman, as the law of man

That makes her pensioner upon his purse.

That necessary stuff called gold is such

A cold, rude thing it needs the nicest touch

Of thought and speech when it approaches love,

Or it will prove the certain death thereof.

Your words cut deep;‘ tis time we separate.

Well, each goes wiser to a newer mate.