She

I must begin With the young quarter of our honeymoon. You are but one Of countless men who take the priceless boon Of woman’s love and kill it at the start, Not wantonly but blindly. Woman’s passion Is such a subtle thing—woof of her heart, Web of her spirit; and the body’s part Is to play ever but the lesser rôle To her white soul. Seized in brute fashion, It fades like down on wings of butterflies; Then dies. So my love died. Next, on base Mammon’s cross you nailed my pride, Making me ask for what was mine by right: Until, in my own sight, I seemed a helpless slave To whom the master gave A grudging dole. Oh, yes, at times gifts showered Upon your chattel; but I was not dowered By generous love. Hate never framed a curse Or placed a cruel ban That so crushed woman, as the law of man That makes her pensioner upon his purse. That necessary stuff called gold is such A cold, rude thing it needs the nicest touch Of thought and speech when it approaches love, Or it will prove the certain death thereof.