You think that you have everything,
I say that you do not;
you think your life proceeds apace—

'tis a too, too clever thought.

You have the booty and the man
for which you flung me from your glance—
you keep the bread for which you left,
and drink the wine for which you lied—

but you don't know the way I live,
the way, expunged, I cling, forsaken,
to plans mislaid and knots untied,
to shabby bits of faded lace.

You miss my growth and my decline—
though you do wear a pretty ring—
and have no ken of aught that's mine:
you think of other things instead.

But it does sparkle on your hand,
while you make merry, dance and sing.

You look on me not—nor smile, nay—
though you do wear a pretty face;
no demons abide in your drear dreams
to kiss your doubts—they coax you not—

you keep no thought for what I give
each night when sinfully you entwine
and shudder in your bed, mistaken.

You may enjoy the life you bought
you may reap wonders in your head—

but how much more we could have had
had you not our oneness cleft,
had we kept stitching tattered seams,

had you never left me and lied
to become a poor rich man's bride.