What was his offense to you,

You who sit thro’ dreamless days,

Sifting thro’ your fingers slim

Ashes in a porphyry vase?

Hatred makes your eyes grow hard,

As you conjure forth his name

From the dust that was his face,

From the heart that was his flame.

Then she, lifting heavy eyes,

Spoke: “When this man walked the world

Him I loved, he loved not me;

So his days to death I hurled.

“Dying, then, he touched my hand,

Smiled and whispered, ‘I forgive’;

This his vengeance on my soul,

I must hate him while I live.”