Forgiven
I might have met his anger with a smile
For so it was that I had set my heart
To mask deception with a wanton’s guile,
And save the tears that now begin to start.
I might have worn my guilty crown of thorn,—
Yea, even worn it gladly like a prize;
But, oh! more bitter than his rage or scorn,
He left me with forgiveness in his eyes.