They could not know her—could not understand
How one could live, and smile, and still be cursed,
Cursed with a “living judgment,” once to be
Beloved—and then to be beloved no more,
And never to forget. Her life was like
Some pictured lily which the artist’s hand
Gives its proportion—shades its virgin leaves
With nature’s beauty—but the bee can find
No banquet there—the breeze waft no perfume.
The shadows of the tomb have lengthened o’er