Classic Poem

Not his first love, nor last, was she who bore
His name now. Yet he would not have her guess
That it was less of love than loneliness
Had brought him tardily suppliant to her door.
Penurious years had taught him to be more
Frugal than once — content with something less
Than the consummate bliss he must confess
He counted now but myth or metaphor.

Yet, lacking love, he gave good counterfeit
In tenderness, forever vigilant lest
Gesture or glance might lead her to surmise
The counterfeit. He envied her a bit
Her greater ardor — and he never guessed
She also might have wished things otherwise.