XII.

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.