But on a day When I was forty-five, looked thirty-five, No gray hairs then, they called me thirty-five, My name went round the city, in the press They hailed me as a genius, I had played Othello to their liking, was yet young And promised much, they said. That afternoon A woman came to see me in my suite, Wonder and admiration in her eyes. Her manner halted, as she thumbed a book Upon the table, while she told her tale: She had won favor as an amateur, Could I, the greatest talked of man to-day, Show her the way to greatness, might it be A modest part could be assigned to her When I played mad Othello? I have found That when a woman has no business with you Her calling speaks the oldest one of all. So true to this I acted. We commenced And for three months I struggled for the prize. Her first play was to make me pity her. She told me of her suffering, her youth, (She was then thirty-five), her poverty, Her labor to learn French. And like a man I pitied her and opened up my purse. She said, “No! No! this hat and dress will do, It brushes well.” She would not take a cent. I saw her daily for a month before I won her. Though she gave me hands and lips-- There was a fury in her lips, my heart Seemed like to stop--I could not win the prize. One day she broke in tears: “You seemed so noble, So great of mind, are you then like the rest Who want a woman’s body, nothing else?” “I want your love,” I said, “your love for mine, I love you, dearest!” faugh, must I repeat The gagging words? So I declared the love I felt too deeply, and to prove my love I added: “I’ll renounce the gift of love, My Lady Wonderful, worship you afar. You would not have me tortured by your eyes, Nor have me see you often, in this case!” So I had given love as I had given All wealth that I could pour of soul, achievement, Name in the world, all pride, all thought of self Present or future to this woman, now For love’s sake I renounced the gift of love. And so I left her. Well, she called me back. And though I was a fool, and blinded too, I saw her thought and won her in an hour. So then commenced my madness, for she said It could not be again. The blood I tasted Could not be drunk. “You love me,” she would say, “Then bring me not to shame, it will be known If we go on. I cannot lose my bread. Librarians cannot have their names in doubt Who serve the public, as I do.” So it was The madness braced my will, and unrelenting I sought her, won her. In a little while We were adjusted to habitual love. And I was happy save when I was mad. For she knew younger men who came to call; Or take her to the theatre, with one She corresponded. “Let it be,” she said,