Page:The Atlantic Monthly Volume 113.djvu/227

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THE CLINGING VINE
219
And sighing, and denying,You'd hold my hand and go.
You scowl—and I don't wonder;I spoke too fast again; But you'll forgive one blunder,For you are like most men: You are,—or so you've told me,So many mortal times, That heaven ought not to hold meAccountable for crimes.
Be calm? Was I unpleasant?Then I'll be more discreet, And grant you, for the present,The balm of my defeat: What she, with all her strivingCould not have brought about,— You've done. Your own contrivingHas put the last light out.
If she were the whole story,If worse were not behind, I'd creep with you to glory,Believing I was blind; I'd creep, and go on seemingTo be what I despise. You laugh, and say I'm dreaming,And all your laughs are lies.
Are women mad? A few are,And if it's true you say—If most men are as you are—We'll all be mad some day. Be calm—and let me finish;There's more for you to know. I'll talk while you diminish,And listen while you grow.
There was a man who marriedBecause he could n't see;
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