The Reflection

She had no life except to be what menRequired of her to be.They came for sympathy, and came againFor sympathy.

She never knew the way her heart to spareWhen they were hurt or worn,Whatever one may for another bearBy her was borne.

They said, you give us of yourself so much!She heard them with a smile,Knowing she only gave to such and suchThemselves awhile.

Their interests, their frets, their loneliness,Their sorrows and despairs,She wore for them--they saw her in no dressThat was not theirs.

She learned to understand the solitudesWhen she by none was sought;Men of themselves grow sick, and in those moodsNeeded her not,

Getting relief of others who gave thingsBy their own purpose lit;If she too had some freshness in her springs,None wanted it.

She grew accustomed to be quietly shutAway, was used to seeLove limping dutifully in a rutThat once ran free;

She knew the signs when friends began to castWhat they had asked her for--Some asked for much, some little, all at lastAsked nothing more.

And when she died they sorrowed, it is true,But not for long, becauseThey had seen some pale reflection that she threw,Not what she was.