Page:Maurine and Other Poems (1910).pdf/45

 Too weak to understand their pain.

As changeful as the winds that blow From every region, to and fro, Devoid of heart, she cannot know The suffering of a human heart.

I knew the cold, fixed gaze of Vivian’s eyes Saw the slow colour to my forehead rise; But lightly answered, toying with my fan, “That sentiment is very like a man! Men call us fickle, but they do us wrong; We’re only frail and helpless, men are strong; And when love dies, they take the poor dead thing And make a shroud out of their suffering, And drag the corpse about with them for years. But we?—we mourn it for a day with tears! And then we robe it for its last long rest, And being women, feeble things at best, We cannot dig the grave ourselves. And so We call strong-limbed New Love to lay it low: Immortal sexton he! whom Venus sends To do this service for her earthly friends, The trusty fellow digs the grave so deep Nothing disturbs the dead laid there to sleep.”

The laugh that followed had not died away Ere Roy Montaine came seeking me to say The band was tuning for our waltz, and so Back to the ball-room bore me. In the glow And heat and whirl, my strength ere long was spent, And I grew faint and dizzy, and we went Out on the cool moonlighted portico, And, sitting there, Roy drew my languid head Upon the shelter of his breast, and bent His smiling eyes upon me, as he said: “I’ll try the mesmerism of my touch To work a cure: be very quiet now, And let me make some passes o’er your brow. Why, how it throbs! you’ve exercised too much! I shall not let you dance again to-night.”

Just then before us, in the broad moonlight, Two forms were mirrored: and I turned my face To catch the teasing and mischievous glance Of Helen’s eyes, as, heated by the dance,