Page:A New Zealand verse (1906).pdf/190

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154
Her Secret.
For when in maiden age one stands Left neither soured nor broken-hearted,Tradition this at least demands!— Nor faithful to some long departed:When midst the records of the years One finds no sign to sorrow over;No yellowing letters stained with tears, No least remembrance of a lover!Hidden in sacredness apart, No withering blossoms loved and guarded—What wonder that the saintliest heart Should feel the slightest bit defrauded?
Dear is the ancient maiden dame To maiden belles of modern dances;And girlish fantasies they frame Of long-past, ever-fresh romances.And if they deem such history She treasures, safe from rash intrusion—She would not tell the whitest lie, Yet still, she fosters the delusion.A smile, a sigh, is all they ask To furnish hints for fancy’s weaving;She takes her tender soul to task For such unparalleled deceiving!
“What changed her fate? and how, and when?” “What crossing chanced of love and duty?”“She scarce was wondrous fair, but then, Is every married dame a beauty?”’Tis strange how brightest maids will love A passing woefulness to borrow;They treasure, happier thoughts above, This mystery of secret sorrow.
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