Her Secret is Betrayed

Once on a happy time you said to me
“Give me your soul, O give me, dear, your soul”;
And I, who thought not of that other toll,
Gave with it too my body utterly.
This rhyméd love you left me, my sole fee,
Which I must treasure; and the dear-bought scroll,
Now that your pleasure had become my dole,
I laid away with all my life to be.

—To-day you take it from me, my poor rhyme,
And lightly ask me, “Why these foolish tears?”
You give the world my secret—“it was time.
What can it matter after all these years?”
Ay. What in truth? Yet herein lies the smart,
That grief for you no longer grieves my heart.