A Widow
" MY heart is dead! " she said, " my heart is dead! "
How precious is the widow's dewy tear:
But meekly to the altar she was led
Before the rounding of the sorrowing year.
Who would have dreamed the " blind bow-boy's butt shaft "
Could pierce a good spear's-length of church-yard clay?
Who would believe that Love's sweet, proffered draught,
Could please the lips that moaned but yesterday?
Who knows a woman's heart? — not I — not you:
Though it be dead and buried in the grave,
To-morrow it may rise, and bud anew;
Bien, vive le cour, ma belle , man is thy slave.
How precious is the widow's dewy tear:
But meekly to the altar she was led
Before the rounding of the sorrowing year.
Who would have dreamed the " blind bow-boy's butt shaft "
Could pierce a good spear's-length of church-yard clay?
Who would believe that Love's sweet, proffered draught,
Could please the lips that moaned but yesterday?
Who knows a woman's heart? — not I — not you:
Though it be dead and buried in the grave,
To-morrow it may rise, and bud anew;
Bien, vive le cour, ma belle , man is thy slave.
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