No! my face a marble bust!
As the Sphynx, impassioned, stern!—
Passions hid, as in an urn,
Burnt to bitter dust!
And I'll write him as he wrote,
Making, with his worded scorn,
Tyrant,—crowned with stinging thorn,—
His cold, cruel note.
"You'll forget," he says, "and I
Feel 'tis better for us twain:
It may give you some small pain,
But, 'twill soon be by.
"You are dark, and Maud is light;
I am dark; and it is said
Opposites are better wed;—
So I think I'm right."
"You are dark and Maud is fair!"
I could laugh at this excuse
If this aching, mad abuse
Were not more than hair!
But I'll write him as a-glad
Some few happy words and light,
Touching on some past delight,
That last year we had.
Not one line of broken vows,
Sighs or hurtful tears unshed,
Faithless lips far better dead,
Nor a withered rose.
But a rose, this Perle to wear,—
Perle des Jardins delicate
With faint fragrant life elate,—
When he weds her there.
So; 'tis finished! It is well!
Go, thou rose! I have no tear,
Kiss, or word for thee to bear,
And no woe to tell.
Only be thus full of life,
Cold and calm, impassionate,
Filled with neither love nor hate,
When he calls her wife!