10.06.2007, 13:57
Ben Trovato
The deacon thought. “I know them,” he began
“And they are all you ever heard of them –
Allurable to no sure theorem,
The scorn or the humility of man.
You say ‘Can I believe it?’ – and I can;
And I’m unwilling even to condemn
The benefaction of a stratagem
Like hers – and I’m a Presbyterian.
“Though blind, with but a wandering hour to live,
He felt the other woman in the fur
That now the wife had on. Could she forgive
All that? Apparently. Her rings were gone,
Of course; and when he found that she had none,
He smiled – as he had never smiled at her.”
The deacon thought. “I know them,” he began
“And they are all you ever heard of them –
Allurable to no sure theorem,
The scorn or the humility of man.
You say ‘Can I believe it?’ – and I can;
And I’m unwilling even to condemn
The benefaction of a stratagem
Like hers – and I’m a Presbyterian.
“Though blind, with but a wandering hour to live,
He felt the other woman in the fur
That now the wife had on. Could she forgive
All that? Apparently. Her rings were gone,
Of course; and when he found that she had none,
He smiled – as he had never smiled at her.”