Oh, how I envied—envied him.
Some secret grief Jim sought to hide;
Grew weak and weaker till he died
And though I grieved that it was so,
I could not weep to see him go,
For joy, not sorrow, filled my bowl:
’Twas mine the widow to console.
Though Jim was dead, I was alive
To bring sweet honey to the hive.
I married her, and in my glee