From far she watched his wanderings, and sighed
To know herself so soft, so warm a thing;
And laughed recalling with what pain she tried
To pipe the tune that he had bade her sing.
For he had told her in those golden days,
When all her hope lay trembling on his breast,
That she must watch him go his vagrant ways—
For him there was no peace, there was no rest.
His words had shown her all she feared, and when
He slept she lay beside him silently.
Up in the morning, gayly serene again,
She told him she had found Philosophy.
This made him comfortable, and though she died
He should not know how bitterly she lied.