Page:An epic of women and other poems (IA epicofwomenother00osha).pdf/143

And she thought how one day—she heeding nought—
  The last voice on the fruitless air was borne
And died almost a taunt, and the last thought
  Of her was changed to hate or utter scorn.

And she thought how since that time, day by day,
  The man had learnt to live without her need,
And been quite happy perhaps many a way,
  All without loving her or taking heed.

And that which was the great woe had scarce grown
  In any gradual way; but with a burst
Her life was torn apart from peace, and thrown
  Far from the love that seemed its own at first

All for a mere girl's fancy too—a whim
  For foreign faces and some ruddier south,
And no real choice to die away from him
  Who won the truest troth in love and youth.

Now it was bitter to be quite outcast,
  And bitter—when this thought of dying crost
Her heart—to reach him no more at the last
  Than in mere rumour, as of one long lost.