The Wife
They locked him in a prison cell,Murky and mean.She kissed him there a wife’s farewellThe bars between.And when she turned to go, the crowd,Thinking to see her shamed and bowed,Saw her pass out as calm and proudAs any queen.
She passed a kinsman on the street,To whose sad eyesShe made reply with smile as sweetAs April skies.To one who loved her once and knewThe sorrow of her life, she threwA gay word, ere his tale was dueOf sympathies.
She met a playmate, whose red roseHad never a thorn,Whom fortune guided when she choseHer marriage morn,And, smiling, looked her in the eye;But, seeing the tears of sympathy,Her smile died, and she passed on byIn quiet scorn.
They could not know how, when by nightThe city slept,A sleepless woman, still and white,The watches kept;How her wife-loyal heart had borneThe keen pain of a flowerless thorn,How hot the tears that smiles and scornHad held unwept.