She was aweary of the hovering <br />Of Love's incessant tumultuous wing; <br />Her lover's tokens she would answer not-- <br />'Twere well she should be strange with him somewhat: <br />A pretty babe, this Love,--but fie on it, <br />That would not suffer her lay it down a whit! <br />Appointed tryst defiantly she balked, <br />And with her lightest comrade lightly walked, <br />Who scared the chidden Love to hide apart, <br />And peep from some unnoticed corner of her heart. <br />She thought not of her lover, deem it not <br />(There yonder, in the hollow, that's HIS cot), <br />But she forgot not that he was forgot. <br />She saw him at his gate, yet stilled her tongue-- <br />So weak she felt her, that she would feel strong, <br />And she must punish him for doing him wrong: <br />Passed, unoblivious of oblivion still; <br />And if she turned upon the brow o' the hill, <br />It was so openly, so lightly done, <br />You saw she thought he was not thought upon. <br />He through the gate went back in bitterness; <br />She that night woke and stirred, with no distress, <br />Glad of her doing,--sedulous to be glad, <br />Lest perhaps her foolish heart suspect that it was sad.<br /><br />Francis Thompson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/beginning-of-end/
