If I'd been angry once, and struck your mouth
To leave the mark there, — if I'd said the name
To make your face go crimson, and the drouth
Of your dry spirit ember into flame, —
If once I'd kindled you, and seen you burn
Scarlet to white to the clean acrid coal
And brittle shell of hatred, — I could learn,
Now you are dead, to love you for your soul.

But we were lies and never did confess
The true thing in us. When I should have raged
And killed you with a bloody sword, I'd press
Your hand and smile; and when your malice waged
Most bitterly with mine, you kissed me most.
I cannot even see your face, poor ghost.