I saw all this, but knew That they were not like me--were most unlike In constitution and condition. Thus, My power to do, and do the single thing My power was shaped to do, became, instead Of wings to bear me, weights to burden me. The moiling multitude for little tasks Found little motives plenty; but for me, Who in my indolence they all despised-- Not understanding me--no motive rose To lash or lead. Even the Jove I dreamed Would give me impulse had defrauded me. Feeble and proud; strong, yet emasculate; Centred in self, and still despising self; Goaded, yet held; convinced, but never moved? Such conflict ofttimes held and harried me That death had met with welcome. If I read, I read to kill my time. No interest In the great thoughts of others moved my soul, Because I had no object; useless quite The knowledge and the culture I possessed; And if I rode, the stale monotony Of the familiar landscapes sickened me. In these dull years, my toddling little wean Grew into prattling childhood, and I gained Such fresh delight from her as kept my heart From fatal gloom; but more and more I shunned The world around me, more and more drew in The circle of my life, until, at last, My home became my hermitage. I knew The dissolution of the spell would come, And, though I dreaded it, I longed to greet The crash and transformation. If my pride Forbade the full confession to my wife That time had verified her prophecy, It failed to hold the truth from her. She read, With a true woman's insight, all my heart; But with a woman's sensitiveness shrank From questions which might seem to carry blame; And so, for years, there lay between our souls The bar of silence. One sweet summer eve, After my lamb was folded and before The lamps were lighted, as I sat alone Within my room, I heard reluctant feet Seeking my door. They paused, and then I heard: "May I come in?" "Ay, you may always come; And you are welcome always," I replied. The room was dim, but I could see her face Was pale, and her long lashes wet. "Your seat"-- I said, with open arms. Upon my knee, One hand upon my shoulder, she sank down As if the heart within her breast were lead, And she were weary with its weight. "My wife, What burden now?" I asked her tenderly.