WILL HE FORGIVE?
Clasped in another's arms, and forced to smile—
To lip, to laugh, whilst, distant many a mile,
He lies under the sod. O God!
My heart is buried with him; only the husk, the shell,
This man holds. And yet my mother says: 'It is well—
Thou art rich, and should'st rejoice in my choice.'
Compared with this man he was poor, though glorious of soul and face;
But a crooked back and mind are accounted small disgrace—
To have a shrunken purse is worse.
So, lapped in the splendours of state,
I live with a man that I hate—
Hating myself. Yet I live,
And wonder whether he knows
Under the sunshine and snows,
And whether he will forgive.