But he, apart, with sorrow dumb,
Beheld, scarce conscious of the strife,
Himself in her by fate o'ercome;
And as she passed to her new life,
Righted by still more wrong, divined
Her hate for him who called her wife,
And on the hoarded knowledge pined
And starved, till he, as she, was dead,
And nought remained but to unwind
His coil of days. So with slow tread