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