Worn at his lips his smile so wan—
Under the floor of the block lay hiding
Athos and Porthos and d'Artagnan!
Perhaps;—and so, while the hand still turneth,
As one's who serves, to his daily chore;
While she who once walked beside, returneth
To walk with her hand in thine no more—
Under thy heart's work-wear there burneth
The love that is hers for evermore.