THREE QUATRAINS

She said, “Lift high the cup!” Of her arm’s weariness she gave no sign, But, smiling, raised it up That none might see or guess it held no wine.

Forgive me not! Hate me and I shall know Some of Love’s fire still burns within your breast! Forgiveness finds its home in hearts at rest, On dead volcanoes only lies the snow.

One deep red rose I dropped into his grave, So small a thing to give so great a friend! Yet well he knew it was my heart I gave And must fare on without it to the end,