I knew no love but hers, nor cared to know,
She grieved and did not hide from me her grief that this was so.
I shut my heart with jealous care about her glowing face,
Her voice, her eyes, her lips, her woman’s sweet and tender grace.
I snatched her hands away when she caressed a wounded dove,
I envied all she looked on, grudged each smile, and called it love.
She died, I saw her lying there so still and cold and sweet.
Her roses flung their fragrance unheeded at her feet;
I laid my face against her own, her white soul spoke to mine
And warm across my frozen heart a bright light seemed to shine.
With aching arms I drew a suffering world into my life
And, chastened, learned too late that I had never loved my wife.
* * * * *