Classic Poem

I.

" Traitress ! " he cried, " aye, traitress! "
And then the dagger smote,
And with its point it traversed
The white and slender throat
One glance the woman gave him:
It was not anger there,
But somewhat like the pleading
Of infinite despair.

II.

" Harlot! " he cried, " God curse you,
Who gavest love to me
And then " ... the slow stream trickled
From her throat wearily.
One other glance she gave him,
And love was in the look,
And as she fell he knew his hell,
And even his wild heart shook.

III.

The hell that ever, ever,
Till time itself is o'er,
Will close around his spirit bound
And fettered evermore
Is it not hell to know that she
By his own hand did fall?
Yes, she is dead, and that gold head
Was sinless after all