Mistake

AFTER the letters, the nocturnal trials,
The melancholies, the stubborn clutch of breaths,
After the useless beauty of denials,
The gods heard my pathetic crow of triumph;
For she was mine — and wished that she were Death’s.

And now I know that there is no believing
One’s own soul, which can lie with willing lips;
W hile she, poor girl, thought that I was deceiving
Only herself. Gods! is there no way of seeing
The price beforehand of these little slips?