Last night, I saw Angela -- Beppo's bride.
She veiled her eyes, and looked at me askance.
Her mien was haugthy (sic); and distrust, and pride,
Were mingled in her glance.
I strove to win one friendly look or word --
In vain. To me, she was both deaf and blind,
Yet, I was told she spoke of me -- and heard
Her speech was scarcely kind.
Ungrateful world! those whom we most befriend,
With curses often pay the debt they owe.
And those whom we give blessings, in the end,
Give back to us a blow.
One time, I gave a beggar, in the street,
The scarf I wore -- to keep her from the cold.
Next time we chanced, by accident to meet,
She was insulting -- bold.
I gave Angela Beppo. He was mine,
To keep forever, or to send away.
If I had willed it, she would sit and pine,
In loneliness, to-day.
All her great joy, all her supreme delight,
I gave to her, most willingly -- to find;
I seem a hateful object in her sight.
Why is she so unkind?
Peterson's Magazine (October, 1881): 278
Courtesy of Linda Listmann.
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