Classic Poem

You made your little lover kind,
And quick of word and kiss and tear,
And everything a woman craves;
You could not make him big, my dear.

And so you made your great self small,
As only a great woman can,
Nor cared a jot; but he, he knew,
And cared a lot, the little man.

He knew, and hated you at last. . . .
Let me be fair! He left you then.
That one big, generous thing he did;
Left you to grieve to heights again.