A Sick Man’s Jealousy
A heavy cross, the lot Fate laid upon her—
“Suffer! be silent! weep not! feign the smile!”
And he, to whom her love, her youth, her will,
Her all, she’d given, her torturer proved the while.
For years no greeting with a friend knew she;
Subdued, in sadness, and in trembling fear,
Bitter, unreasoning, sarcastic jeers,
Without a murmur, ’twas her lot to hear.
“Hush! tell me not you’ve lost your youth for me—
That you’re distracted by my jealousy;
Nay, tell me not! My grave is close at hand,
While you are fresher than spring’s blossoms be.
“That day, the day when you at first loved me,
And heard from me, ‘I love,’ in whispered breath,
Curse not that day! The grave is near for me!
I will right all, redeem all, by my death.
“Cease! Tell me not the days for you are sad;
This invalid a jailor cease to name.
For me remains the cold gloom of the grave;
For thee the embraces of another flame.
“Full well I know thou dost another love.
To spare, to wait, this seemed a tedious plan.
Oh, wait awhile! my grave is very near!
Let Fate end that which Fate in me began!”
Such cruel, torturing, insulting words—
Lovely, yet pale as chiselled marble—she
In silence heard, and only wrung her hands.
What could she answer to such jealousy?