And he, to whom her love, her youth, her will,
Her all, she’d given, her torturer proved the while.
For years no greeting with a friend knew she;
Subdued, in sadness, and in trembling fear,
Bitter, unreasoning, sarcastic jeers,
Without a murmur, ’twas her lot to hear.
“Hush! tell me not you’ve lost your youth for me—
That you’re distracted by my jealousy;
Nay, tell me not! My grave is close at hand,
While you are fresher than spring’s blossoms be.