The Wife

They locked him in a prison cell,                      Murky and mean.              She kissed him there a wife's farewell                      The bars between.              And when she turned to go, the crowd,              Thinking to see her shamed and bowed,              Saw her pass out as calm and proud                      As any queen.              She passed a kinsman on the street,                      To whose sad eyes              She made reply with smile as sweet                      As April skies.              To one who loved her once and knew              The sorrow of her life, she threw              A gay word, ere his tale was due                      Of sympathies.              She met a playmate, whose red rose                      Had never a thorn,              Whom fortune guided when she chose                      Her marriage morn,              And, smiling, looked her in the eye;              But, seeing the tears of sympathy,              Her smile died, and she passed on by                      In quiet scorn.              They could not know how, when by night                      The city slept,              A sleepless woman, still and white,                      The watches kept;              How her wife-loyal heart had borne              The keen pain of a flowerless thorn,              How hot the tears that smiles and scorn                      Had held unwept.