THE YOUNG WIFE
She leaned above the river's sedgy brink—
The little wife—half-minded there to drink
Forgetfulness of all the grief and pride
That overwhelmed her spirit like a tide.
She had so blindly trusted! Yet doubt grew—
Whence it had sprung, alas! she hardly knew,—
A hydra-headed monster that devoured
Her happiness ere fully it had flowered.
He who had been her truth!—could he betray?
"Ah, let me die," she cried, "or quickly stay,
Thou who bestowed, unasked, this gift of breath,
Imaginings more terrible than death!"
Lone and forespent, she leaned her heavily
Against a willow; when she seemed to see—
Doubting if that indeed she saw or dreamed,
So full of mystery the vision seemed—
A form unknown, ineffable in grace,
With look compassionate bent on her face.
"Thy tears have moved the Heart Omnipotent,
Wherefore I come, to thee in pity sent,—"
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