She was so pure, so high above me,
I marvelled how she came to love me:
Or did she? Well, in her own fashion –
Affection, pity, never passion.
I knew I was not worth her love;
Yet oh, how wistfully I strove
To be her equal in some way;
She knew I tried, and I would pray
Some day she’d hold her head in pride,
And stand with praising by my side.
A Weakling, I – she made me strong;
My finest thoughts to her belong;
Through twenty years she mothered me,
And then one day she smothered me
With kisses, saying wild with joy:
‘Soon we’ll be three – let’s hope, a boy.’
‘Too old to bear a child,’ they said;
Well, they were right, for both are dead. . . .
Ah no, not dead – she is with me,
And by my side she’ll ever be;
Her spirit lingers, half divine:
All good I do is hers, not mine.
God, by my works O let me strive
To keep her gentleness alive!
Let in my heart her spirit glow,
And by my thoughts for others show
She is not dead: she’ll never die
While love for humankind have I.