C. Q. de France
Chastened
BY KATE G. LAFFITTE
I knew no love but hers, nor cared to know,
She grieved and did not hide from me her grief that this was so.
I shut my heart with jealous care about her glowing face,
Her voice, her eyes, her lips, her woman’s sweet and tender grace.
I snatched her hands away when she caressed a wounded dove,
I envied all she looked on, grudged each smile, and called it love.
She died, I saw her lying there so still and cold and sweet.
Her roses flung their fragrance unheeded at her feet;