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!