He. Yes, you, not she. If she were at your height!
But there’s no martyr wrapt in her rose flesh.
There should have been; for Nature gave you both
The self-same purple for your eyes and hair,
The self-same Southern music to your lips,
Fashioned you both, as ’twere, in the same mold,
Yet failed to put the soul in one of you!
I know her willful—her light head quite turned
In this court atmosphere of flatteries;
A Moscow beauty, petted and spoiled there,