The Forgiveness

If I might see you dead, Beloved--dead--
Your false eyes closed forever to the light,
Your false smile stilled upon my aching sight;
If I might know that nevermore your head,
Cruelly fair, could lie upon the bed
Of my torn heart; if I beheld the night
Free from your living thought--ah! if I might,
Then could my desolate soul be comforted.

For this is worst of all the woes you gave--
My heart may not forgive. The tired years go
And leave the great love weeping for a grave,
Scorned and unburied, 'neath the open sky.
I could not love you less, to see you so.
Loving you more, I might forgive--and die.