Page:The Atlantic Monthly Volume 113.djvu/228

And all his days he carried
The marks of his degree.
But you—you came clear-sighted,
And found truth in my eyes;
And all my wrongs you've righted
With lies, and lies, and lies.

You've killed the last assurance
That once would have me strive
To rouse an old endurance
That is no more alive.
It makes two people chilly
To say what we have said,
But you—you'll not be silly
And wrangle for the dead.

You don't? You never wrangle?
Why scold then,—or complain?
More words will only mangle
What you've already slain.
Your pride you can't surrender?
My name for that you fear?
Since when were men so tender,
And honor so severe?

No more—I'll never bear it.
I'm going. I'm like ice.
My burden? You would share it?
Forbid the sacrifice!
Forget so quaint a notion,
And let no more be told;
For moon and stars and ocean
And you and I are cold.