I wonder if the store of joy
And love is limited,
And if because my heart is glad
Some other heart has bled.
Believing this, a balance just
Of recompense, I pray
That my beloved gained the joy
I did not have to-day.
[THE OLD TRAGEDY]
Did I allure you?—I only meant to love you,
I only meant to be so dear you could not let me go.
I held you close against my heart, bending down above you,
As mothers brood above their babes, I loved you, loved you so.
'T was passion that moved you, called to you and caught you;
You never felt my tenderness full launched on your desire.
You never knew the friendship and sympathy I brought you.
Ah, Mary pity women when their veins are filled with fire.
And so I have lost you, I who never won you;
You thought me but a siren by your crafty arts beguiled.
I hate myself and scorn you for the honor I have done you.
I leave you, bitter woman, and I came to you a child.
[TABOO]
Now am I sacred, for that holy thing,
Your touch, has made me as a god; to-day
I am magnificent, I am a king
To whom my fellow men must cringe and pray.