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.