Perhaps it was pity, not love; I do not know.
But this devotion that I have for thee,
This is another thing; I have no words
To tell thee what thou knewest and didst not heed.
Why shouldst thou heed? What could I do for thee,
To whom the whole world is willing to give its all
Holding that all less than the sight of thee?
"When at to-morrow's dawn they torture me,
Burning my eyes, I shall remember thine,
The luminous circles of light I so adored.
And when they crush my limbs, I shall find peace
Knowing that thine, safe in the distant fort,
Amongst thy household rest in licit love.
"How I have envied them the things they did!
The women who loved thee, and were loved by thee.
Envied their jewelled hands the right to play
In that soft hair of thine, their little teeth
The law they allowed themselves to cling and bite
Thy rounded shoulder, I, who was naught to thee,
Set to prepare the couch, to smooth the quilt
"Once I remember, crouched against thy tent,
I sought for warmth (thou wouldst have pardoned me
So cold it was that night) and heard her speak,—
Her, who beside thee, tranced in pleasure, lay,
Saying, 'It is not for thy beauty's sake
That I desire thee so, but for thy fame,
Sweeping aside thine enemies, as leaves
Are blown by autumn gusts,' and thy reply
Was 'Ah, Delight, art thou so sure of this?
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