Page:An epic of women and other poems (IA epicofwomenother00osha).pdf/143

 And she thought how one day—she heeding nought— The last voice on the fruitless air was borne And died almost a taunt, and the last thought Of her was changed to hate or utter scorn.

And she thought how since that time, day by day, The man had learnt to live without her need, And been quite happy perhaps many a way, All without loving her or taking heed.

And that which was the great woe had scarce grown In any gradual way; but with a burst Her life was torn apart from peace, and thrown Far from the love that seemed its own at first

All for a mere girl's fancy too—a whim For foreign faces and some ruddier south, And no real choice to die away from him Who won the truest troth in love and youth.

Now it was bitter to be quite outcast, And bitter—when this thought of dying crost Her heart—to reach him no more at the last Than in mere rumour, as of one long lost.