My dear and I, we disagreed
When we had been much time together.
For when will lovers learn to sail
From sailing always in good weather?

She said a hateful little word
Between the pages of the book.
I bubbled with a noble rage,
I bruised her with a dreadful look,

And thanked her kindly for the word
Of such a little silly thing;
Indeed I loved my poet then
Beyond my dear, or anything.

And she, the proud girl, swept away,
How swift and scornfully she went!
And I the frightened lover stayed,
And have not had one hour’s content

Until to-day; until I knew
That I was loved again, again;
Then hazard how this thing befel,
Brother of women and of men?

“Perhaps a gallant gentleman
Accomplished it, who saw you bleed;
Perhaps she wrote upon the book
A riddling thing that you could read;

“Perhaps she crept to you, and cried,
And took upon her all the blame.”
O no, do proud girls creep and cry?
“Perhaps she whispered you your name.”

O no, she walked alone, and I
Was walking in the rainy wood,
And saw her drooping by the tree,
And saw my work of widowhood.