Grew on her, till she pitied his sorrow
As if she truly had been the cause—
Yea, his deserter; and came to wonder
What mould of man he was.
“Tell me my history!” would exclaim she;
“Our history,” she said mournfully.
“But you know, surely, Ma’am?” they would answer,
Much in perplexity.
Curious, she crept to his grave one evening,
And a second time in the dusk of the morrow;
Then a third time, with crescent emotion
Like a bereaved wife’s sorrow.
No gravestone rose by the rounded hillock;
—“I marvel why this is?” she said.
—“He had no kindred, Ma’am, but you near.”
—She set a stone at his head.
She learnt to dream of him, and told them:
“In slumber often uprises he,
And says: ‘I am joyed that, after all, Dear,
You’ve not deserted me!”
At length died too this kinless woman,
As he had died she had grown to crave;
And at her dying she besought them
To bury her in his grave.
Such said, she had paused; until she added:
“Call me by his name on the stone,
As I were, first to last, his dearest,
Not she who left him lone!”
And this they did. And so it became there
That, by the strength of a tender whim,
The stranger was she who bore his name there,
Not she who wedded him.
HER SONG
I sang that song on Sunday,
To witch an idle while,
I sang that song on Monday,
As fittest to beguile;
I sang it as the year outwore,
And the new slid in;
I thought not what might shape before
Another would begin.