I loved her madly. For—so wrought
Young Love, divining Isles of Truth
Large in the central seas of Youth—
“Love will win love,” I thought.
Once when I brought a rare wild pink
To place among her plants, the wise,
Soft lifting of her speaking eyes
Said more than thanks, I think....
She loved another.—Yes, I know
All you would say of woman. You,
Like other men, would comfort too....
But then I loved her so.
She loved another.—Ah! too well
I know the story of her soul!—
A weary tale the weary whole
Of how she loved and fell.
I loved her so!... Remembering now
My mad grief then, I wonder why
Grief never kills.... I could not die.—
She died—I know not how.
Strange, is it not? For she was dear
To me as life once.—A regret
She is now; just to make eyes wet
And bring a fullness here.
Yet, had she lived as dead in shame
As now in death, Love would have used
Pride’s pitying pencil and abused
The memory of her name.
This helps me thank my God, who led
My broken life in sunlight of
This pure affection, that my love
Lives through her being dead.