'Tis men who say that through all hurt and pain <br />The woman's love, wife's, mother's, still will hold, <br />And breathes the sweeter and will more unfold <br />For winds that tear it, and the sorrowful rain. <br />So in a thousand voices has the strain <br />Of this dear patient madness been retold, <br />That men call woman's love. Ah! they are bold, <br />Naming for love that grief which does remain. <br /> <br />Love faints that looks on baseness face to face: <br />Love pardons all; but by the pardonings dies, <br />With a fresh wound of each pierced through the breast. <br />And there stand pityingly in Love's void place <br />Kindness of household wont familiar-wise, <br />And faith to Love--faith to our dead at rest.<br /><br />Augusta Davies Webster<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/love-s-mourner/
