If God would only let us change our natures at will;
If I had no heart I could better act my part;
Deserted, unloved wife, yet loving him, loving him still!
I think that a modern saint is better without a heart.
When I die—what other hope do I have—he may come at last;
Perhaps he may even lay his hand on my brow
When ’tis cold, and say: “It is long since past,
But she was dear to me in the long ago.”
It seems as if I should know if he stood by my side;