NOT that on me the Cyprian fury fell, <br />Last martyr of my love-ensanguined race; <br />Not that my children drop the averted face <br />When my name shames the silence; not that hell <br />Holds me where nevermore his glance shall dwell <br />Nightlong between my lids, my pulses race <br />Through flying pines the tempest of the chase, <br />Nor my heart rest with him beside the well. <br /> <br /> <br />Not that he hates me; not, O baffled gods - <br />Not that I slew him! - yet, because your goal <br />Is always reached, nor your rejoicing rods <br />Fell ever yet upon insensate clods, <br />Know, the one pang that makes your triumph whole <br />Is, that he knows the baseness of my soul.<br /><br />Edith Wharton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/phaedra/
