He and She

She (to herself).
O LOST to me, lost more than if by death!
Why did I let him take me back at all?

Did I not know
He never could forgive my perjured breath?

Could he forego
From height of his proud faith to scorn my fall?

I loved that other man, and that God knows;
I know it, to my bitter shame and cost.

O fair and cruel face,
Which like a baneful and false beacon rose.

And by its rays
Lit me to shipwreck, where, then, all was lost!

Do I not hate him, now, cast off by him?
Surely I do, with all my strength of heart;

As tired and cold,
In this man's strange forgiveness, bleak and grim,

My wings I fold,
And ache for love of which I once was part.

O happy, shameful, shameless days gone by,
As warm with sun as these are cold with snow!

False love! And yet
Did he not build for me new earth and sky?

Can I forget
The joy he made my body and soul to know?

Doubtless, as I this evening sit and shiver,
Here in the twilight by the flickering fire,

Those lips of his
Make other women's lips with joy to quiver,

As 'neath their kiss
Mine trembled, while my blood was all desire.

Do I not hate him? Yea, with heart and soul;
But am I sure that if he came in now, —

Came in and turned.
With the old air of confident control,

Or looked and yearned
Into my eyes, or touched my cheek or brow.

My scorn would strike as I would have it do?
O vanished heaven of love in which I was,

Could I resist,
If once again my face towards his he drew

And my lips kissed,
And things that were should come again to pass?

There sits my husband, thinking what? Who knows
What thoughts are busy in his working brain?

He kept his word.
And took me back, to shelter from the crows

A wounded bird,
With draggled plumage, on its breast a stain.
He (to himself).
Yes, if this case goes rightly, it will make
A difl'erence to my fortunes certainly.
If they can only nurse the patient well!
Much hangs on them in this — more than on me;
And yet a cure would seem a miracle:
So save we folks for our and not for their sake.
Still sitting there, poor, punished, contrite thing!
And can she be the woman for whose love
I once had given all that men most prize?
It seems she has no heart in her to move,
But sits and gazes with those great, sad eyes,
And sad, strained lips that never smile or sing!

O pale and changed! No longer proud of mien.
Who held herself with such a stately grace

That scarce your utmost praises could beguile
A faint, pink flush to the all-perfect face,
Or stir the cold composure of her smile, —
Fair are you still; but not as once, my queen!

Nay, queen no more of mine! Queen of what, then?
Queen of dishonor and all treachery —
But why upbraid? Has she not borne her part?
Her life went down with mine beneath that sea,
Whose depths close over many an eager heart,
Whose wrecks are ruined lives of women and men.

I have not thought enough of her, I fear.
Pondering my own profession and my fame;
We have not spoken this long afternoon;
'T is hard to leave her to her speechless shame.
(Aloud.)
Come, now, and play me some slow, sleepy tune.
And as you pass me, stay and kiss me, dear.