He walked the way of life alone, No wife, no child, no house his own; A quiet man, he did not dare To think a maiden anywhere For such a one would ever care. Nor did I think a woman would -- For men are always understood The way themselves they understand; Yes, so ourselves we often brand, And mould our lives with our own hand. I know he worshipped women, yes With strange detachment, tenderness -- With something now that seems to me Much sweeter, holier, to be Than loudly shouted chivalry. And I remember now, at last, That oftentimes, when he had passed, The eyes of many women turned And followed him, as if they yearned To tell him what he never learned. So slipped away the days of youth, And John wed Mary, William Ruth. The road of life is fair and wide, And none is happiness denied; And yet he always stepped aside. The lovely girls of younger days He saw take up their wedded ways; Alone he faced the storm, the strife, And ever lonelier his life As friendship turned from friend to wife. And yet I know what hurt the most: As years rolled on, a happy host Of little children he would meet, Of little children fair and sweet, Each morning in the village street. He always something had for each: A scarlet apple, velvet peach, Perhaps in wintertime a toy, A word of counsel for the boy, Some little help, some little joy. I used to pity him; and then One day he did not wake again. And yet he did not lie alone, The one who wife had never known, Nor house nor children of his own. I thought he knew no woman's love; I think he learned at last above, From tears that womanhood let fall, From sobbing of the children small, He was the one most loved of all. |