A Question of Marriage

"I yield you my whole heart, Countess," said he;
"Come, Dear, and be queen of my studio."
"No, sculptor.    You're merely my friend," said she:
"We dine our artists; but marry them—no."

"Be it thus," he replied.    And his love, so strong,
He subdued as a stoic should.    Anon
He wived some damsel who'd loved him long,
Of lineage noteless; and chiselled on.

And a score years passed.    As a master-mind
The world made much of his marching fame,
And his wife's little charms, with his own entwined,
Won day after day increased acclaim.

The countess-widow had closed with a mate
In rank and wealth of her own degree,
And they moved among the obscurely great
Of an order that had no novelty.

And oldening—neither with blame nor praise—
Their stately lives begot no stir,
And she saw that when death should efface her days
All men would abandon thought of her;

And said to herself full gloomily:
"Far better for me had it been to shine
The wench of a genius such as he
Than rust as the wife of a spouse like mine!"