XIV.

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!