Anon I heard her rate with mad, Mad words her babe within its cot, And felt particularly glad That it had not.
I knew (such subtle brains have men!) That she was uttering what she shouldn't; And thought that I would chide, and then I thought I wouldn't.
Few could have gazed upon that face, Those pouting coral lips, and chided: A Rhadamanthus, in my place, Had done as I did.
For wrath with which our bosoms glow Is chained there oft by Beauty's spell; And, more than that, I did not know The widow well.
So the harsh phrase passed unreproved: Still mute—(O brothers, was it sin?)— I drank unutterably moved, Her beauty in.
And to myself I murmured low, As on her upturned face and dress The moonlight fell, "Would she say No,— By chance, or Yes?"
She stood so calm, so like a ghost, Betwixt me and that magic moon, That I already was almost A finished coon.
But when she caught adroitly up And soothed with smiles her little daughter; And gave it, if I'm right, a sup Of barley-water;
And, crooning still the strange, sweet lore Which only mothers' tongues can utter, Snowed with deft hand the sugar o'er Its bread-and-butter;
And kissed it clingingly (ah, why Don't women do these things in private?)— I felt that if I lost her, I Should not survive it.