To grief and loss in other guise,
Silent I’ll bow, and, smiling, see
Sweet dawn in gloom that’s shared with thee!’”
The champagne had been heady, and there was a good deal of hock. Tears of maudlin sentimentality suffused the reader’s eyes at the metrical tribute to himself as his wife’s “hero-saint.” So long as she published nothing of the sort, it was pleasant to find, accidentally, that she wrote love verses in his absence, dedicated to him. He had not suspected how much she felt their parting—she had borne herself so heroically. Brushing away the soft moisture, he read on:
“To-day, I stood and saw him stay
His horse upon the woodland way,
And toss to me a gay farewell.
The chestnut leaves about him fell;
The royal maples burned and shone,
Veiling misshapen branch and stone,