What loathsome blow by blackest infamy,

What loss of face, what coup to dearest pride!

What sour chagrin dashed in that note to see

Sweet proffered troth in curdled ink denied.

My heart cleaved quite by simple words alone

And rended so upon a parchment rind—

A strike through flesh unto the very bone

Where never seemed a stroke yet more unkind.

“You do not love me,” iron gall propounds—

That kneeled pledge within your drawing room

Shall ever truth and beauty’s hope confound:

All life henceforth becomes a living tomb.

Was I not worth a meeting face to face…

No stauncher heart by cursive black disgraced.