III. Three-hundred And Sixty-Five Tears
How little it was changed, the house I built with ill-gotten gold.
As promised, I came back to see the wretched past
And whether it had altered any. Familiar faces across the field,
They did not see me. And then I spied her at last.
So she had not left Atlanta. But what pleasure was there for her here?
My God! so pale and thin, and moving ever so slowly
To the gate, the garden, the river; eyes so downcast, overcast.
She did not see me, and I had never seen her look so lowly.
But I stayed hard as stone - I had to be - for I was so bent
On mending my self-respect: I would never again let anyone crush me,
Use me, no matter the pleasure; no matter the lust. No!
This slovenly caricature of my former goddess could never be
The idol I once adored. And those virescent eyes would never see
The pathetic visitor come to claim back his wasted life.
Surely the agony upon her face compared not to the torturous months
Endured by this man who has endeavoured to get over his wife.
But as, when she bent to caress the stream, and a tear yet fell,
So too did one escape my eye - but then I could hardly say why!
A year of careful sobriety, each day a blessing in disguise,
Could hardly perish at the sound of one anguished sigh!
Yet, there we were, two wounded animals quietly howling at
Three-hundred and sixty-five moons, and only one sun:
Present in the lachrymose expressions of our estranged lovers,
Trapped in a sylvan madhouse as if forever had not yet begun.