Page:The Atlantic Monthly Volume 113.djvu/228

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THE CLINGING VINE
And all his days he carriedThe marks of his degree.But you—you came clear-sighted,And found truth in my eyes;And all my wrongs you've rightedWith lies, and lies, and lies.
You've killed the last assuranceThat once would have me strive To rouse an old enduranceThat is no more alive. It makes two people chillyTo say what we have said, But you—you'll not be sillyAnd wrangle for the dead.
You don't? You never wrangle?Why scold then,—or complain? More words will only mangleWhat you've already slain. Your pride you can't surrender?My name for that you fear? Since when were men so tender,And honor so severe?
No more—I'll never bear it.I'm going. I'm like ice. My burden? You would share it?Forbid the sacrifice! Forget so quaint a notion,And let no more be told; For moon and stars and oceanAnd you and I are cold.
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