IF she be to me a saint
And to you a devil be,
Speak not of her, dream not to slander her - faint
Or loud : her purity hath no taint, -
That is enough for me!
You say that her smile is sweet,
You aver that her heart is cold. -
And false is false, tho' God be the cheat.
.... When I come to die, let my winding-sheet
Be her wind-blown hair of gold!
Say no ill of her to my face
Who call yourself my friend.
Shall it be curse for curse - not grace for grace,
And a pitiful look at the burial-place
Of the love her love could end?
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