And here it was spring again-- But such a spring! At the end of such years and years And births and births and spheres and spheres of life, Each like a life or a world of its own With its friends, its own completeness, its rounded end. And back of them all Our old home forgotten, Our father and mother gone, And back of this spring that ended world of ours Wherein we parted Grown misty too! And as the train rushed on And the hour of meeting you neared I was thrilled with gladness, thrilled with fear. And now the station was Herkimer, And now it was Amsterdam, And now it was Albany, And then Poughkeepsie on the Hudson. And I looked from the car to the passing scene, And back to the car again. Or I turned in my seat Or took up my book and laid it down, Or fastened my bag for the hundredth time, Or straightened my cloak on the seat, And waited and waited. For I had a story to tell you That I could not wait to tell. I was traveling a thousand miles to tell you, And to get your advice, to have your solace, To look in your eyes again, And to feel in spite of springs that were gone, And our old home, and father and mother gone There was an arm in the world for me to lean on. And the train rushed on Bringing me nearer to you. And the tears welled up to my eyes As I wondered why life had mangled me so: Why the man I loved at first and hated afterward Had died that tragic death, Leaving me with memories of that love, And such agony for that hate. And why as a sort of Empress Eugenia The world turned on me when I fell, And the little power I had departed. And why in spite of my aspiration I had run into such disgust, Such overthrow of my work, Such undoing of myself, Such spiritual wreck and shame! And to think of what had done it: My search for love, my struggle for excellence-- These things alone! I had married this second man for love, And because I believed in him As a man of power, a man of thought, A man who loved me. And hoping through him to retrieve my life From the smut of the man I married first. But I found my very soul deceived: He was just a violent visionary, A frothing fool, A spendthrift, coward, hedonist. And there I was tied to him. And carrying his child while finding him out. So I used to stand with my face to the wall And choke my mouth with a handkerchief To keep from crying out. For I knew if a whimper passed my lips I should fall and roll on the floor with madness, And beat my head on the floor.