"'Robbed, robbed of life's illusions sweet;
Love dead outside her closed door,
And passion fainting at her feet
To wake no more;
"'What canst thou give that unknown bride
Whom thou didst work for in the waste,
Ere fated love was born, and cried--
Was dead, ungraced?
"'No more but this, the partial care,
The natural kindness for its own,
The trust that waxeth unaware,
As worth is known:
"'Observance, and complacent thought
Indulgent, and the honor due
That many another man has brought
Who brought love too.
"'Nay, then, forbid it Heaven!' he said,
'The saintly vision fades from me;
O bands and chains! I cannot wed--
I am not free.'"
With that he raised his face to view;
"What think you," asking, "of my tale?
And was he right to let the dew
Of morn exhale,
"And burdened in the noontide sun,
The grateful shade of home forego--
Could he be right--I ask as one
Who fain would know?"
He spoke to her and spoke to me;
The rebel rose-hue dyed her cheek;
The woven crown lay on her knee;
She would not speak.
And I with doubtful pause--averse
To let occasion drift away--
I answered--"If his case were worse
Than word can say,
"Time is a healer of sick hearts,
And women have been known to choose,
With purpose to allay their smarts,
And tend their bruise,
"These for themselves.
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