The poem
She was so wonderful I wondered If wedding me she had not blundered; She was so pure, so high above me, I marvelled how she came to love me: Or did she? Well, in her own fashion - Affection, pity, never passion.
I knew I was not worth her love; Yet oh, how wistfully I strove To be her equal in some way; She knew I tried, and I would pray Some day she'd hold her head in pride, And stand with praising by my side.
A Weakling, I - she made me strong; My finest thoughts to her belong; Through twenty years she mothered me, And then one day she smothered me With kisses, saying wild with joy: "Soon we'll be three - let's hope, a boy."
"Too old to bear a child," they said; Well, they were right, for both are dead. . . . Ah no, not dead - she is with me, And by my side she'll ever be; Her spirit lingers, half divine: All good I do is hers, not mine.
God, by my works O let me strive To keep her gentleness alive! Let in my heart her spirit glow, And by my thoughts for others show She is not dead: she'll never die While love for humankind have I.