Classic Poem

You hypocrite!
You sly deceiver!
I have watched you fold your hands and sit
With your head bowed the slightest bit,
And your body bending and swaying
As though you were praying
Like a devout and rapt believer.
You knew that folks were looking and you were
Quite pleased with the effect of it.
Your over-mournful mien;
Your meek and almost languid stir;
Your widow's weeds of trailing green.
Wearing a grief in resignation clad,
You seemed so chastely, delicately sad.

You bold, young hypocrite —
I know you now!
Last night when every light was out,
I saw you wave one beckoning bough
And, with a swift and passionate shout,
The storm sprang up — and you, you exquisite,
You laughed a welcome to that savage lout. . .
I heard the thunder of his heavy boots.
And then in that dark, rushing weather,
You clung together;
Safe, with your secret in the night's great cover,
You and your lover.
I saw his windy fingers in your hair;
I saw you tremble and try to tear
Free from your roots
In a headlong rush to him.
His face was dim.
But I could hear his kisses in the rain;
And I could see your arms clasp and unclasp.
His rough, impetuous grasp
Shook you and you let fall
Your torn and futile weeds, or flung them all
Joyfully in the air,
As if they were
Triumphant flags, to sing above
The stark and shameless victory of love!