The Dowry of Silence

In yonder lane where ivies creep,

And winter winds through rafters weep,

There dwelt a maid of tender grace,

With hollow cheek and wistful face.

Her gown was threadbare, pale, and thin,

A remnant of what once had been,

Yet still she walked with queenly air,

A faded rose, yet passing fair.

He found her in the shadowed street,

Where sorrow bowed her weary feet,

And, pausing there, he took her hand—

A lord of wealth, a man of land.

His voice was soft, his gaze was bold,

A warmth amid the bitter cold,

And as he knelt, the vow he gave

Seemed to the maid a song to save.

“O come with me where gardens bloom,

And light dispels the weary gloom;

No more shall toil thy fingers bind,

Nor hunger make thy spirit blind.”

She listened, trembling, to his word—

A promise sweet, yet dimly heard;

For still within her quiet breast,

A doubt remained, an unlaid rest.

“What love is this?” she whispered low,

“That pities what it would not know?

Wouldst thou have sought me, lone and lorn,

Hadst thou in poverty been born?”

He swore his love was firm and true,

As morning’s light and noonday’s hue.

Yet still she turned her pensive gaze

To all the sorrow of her days.

She saw her mother bent and wan,

Her brother’s hands grown rough and drawn,

The hearth that knew no glowing fire,

The walls that shuddered and grew dire.

“I love thee well,” she spake at last,

“But wealth alone holds love too fast.

Wouldst thou love me if I were free,

Yet owned no coin nor land nor lea?”

His lips were still, his brow was grave—

A shadow passed, a silence gave.

And in that hush, her heart grew old—

For love was love, yet bought with gold.

She left him where the cold wind sighed,

A woman yet—a wedded bride

To want, to hunger, grief, and pain—

Yet mistress of her soul again.