He lifted his hand to his plumed chapeau,
He bowed to her beauty and rode away,—
He through the glorious world to go,
She in the lone little home to stay.
Swift as a vision he passed the fields
Where the wild rose blushed amid golden grain;
She took up the weapons which woman wields
When fain from herself she would hide her pain.
Out in the thickest of noble strife
He felt the rapture of conflict brave;
And she, shut into her quiet life,
Half deemed its narrowness like the grave.
Yet, strange to say, when the war was past,
And the knight came back wearing valor's stars,
'T was the lady who, wan and pale, at last
Gave token of wounds which had left their scars.
