Do not suppose that I confess
I sinned — I who have killed him!
For did he not go nightly there
To her balcony and sing —
Until she bade him up to her
And in her arms stilled him,
Then sent him back with lies of love
To me — a shameless thing?

Do not suppose that I confess:
Not unto God, the Father,
Sitting, with mercy in His eyes,
And ready to shrive all,
And shrinking not away from me,
But listening to me rather,
Would I say, " I am on sin's flood,
Save me, or I am drowned!"

Ah no. ... For had he that I loved
But said, " I love her better;
You are my wife — but Beauty reigns
As mistress of men's soul!"
I would have scorned to spill her cup
Of joy — but would have let her
Clasp it to her and drink of it
Whatever he should dole.

Yes, had he only dealt me fair,
But once, and not pretended,
While I with ready doting still
Gave all of soul or flesh —
With a belief I blush for now,
We might at last have ended
Merely as many have before,
Not in this bloody mesh!

For love has too its Holy Ghost
To sin against, past pardon;
Love too, and I in killing him
Have done no more a wrong
Than Christ will, when He comes again
From Paradise, to harden
His heart against all blasphemy
That surges from Hell's throng.