Classic Poem

Mary, sister, Mary of angels,
Theodora,—no, let the old name die
That was yours, that is love's,
Lie still,—it's asleep dear, Mary—
And yet, do you think I forget,
Don't grudge you even a little to Heaven,
And you smiling, scoffing me,
Calling you chosen of Him for His bride?
But oh! shame, killing love with that name.
He was tender once; was He tender,

And is He cruel now?
Laying low the heart's beat of love,
“Will ye climb, will ye reach up to Heaven,” saying,
“Great Love and be God?
So are you ripe for my slaying;
Be accurst, bow, burst asunder, weak hearts,
I am Lord, I, One.”
Was He tender, was He weak, was He lone?
And now this; and thou His?
Alas the life that has been,
Our life! Mary, spare me but one sigh, dear,
One heart's throb, some pitiful reply,
For I'm yours yet, dear, Love's yet,