The Wife

They locked him in a prison cell,

Murky and mean.

She kissed him there a wife's farewell

The bars between.

And when she turned to go, the crowd,

Thinking to see her shamed and bowed,

Saw her pass out as calm and proud

As any queen.

She passed a kinsman on the street,

To whose sad eyes

She made reply with smile as sweet

As April skies.

To one who loved her once and knew

The sorrow of her life, she threw

A gay word, ere his tale was due

Of sympathies.

She met a playmate, whose red rose

Had never a thorn,

Whom fortune guided when she chose

Her marriage morn,

And, smiling, looked her in the eye;

But, seeing the tears of sympathy,

Her smile died, and she passed on by

In quiet scorn.

They could not know how, when by night

The city slept,

A sleepless woman, still and white,

The watches kept;

How her wife-loyal heart had borne

The keen pain of a flowerless thorn,

How hot the tears that smiles and scorn

Had held unwept.