The Deacon thought. “I know them,” he began, <br />“And they are all you ever heard of them— <br />Allurable to no sure theorem, <br />The scorn or the humility of man. <br />You say ‘Can I believe it?’—and I can; <br />And I’m unwilling even to condemn <br />The benefaction of a stratagem <br />Like hers—and I’m a Presbyterian. <br /> <br />“Though blind, with but a wandering hour to live, <br />He felt the other woman in the fur <br />That now the wife had on. Could she forgive <br />All that? Apparently. Her rings were gone, <br />Of course; and when he found that she had none, <br />He smiled—as he had never smiled at her.”<br /><br />Edwin Arlington Robinson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ben-trovato/
