by Edwin Arlington Robinson (1920)

As often as we thought of her,
  We thought of a gray life
That made a quaint economist
  Of a wolf-haunted wife;
We made the best of all she bore
  That was not ours to bear,
And honored her for wearing things
  That were not things to wear.

There was a distance in her look
  That made us look again;
And if she smiled, we might believe
  That we had looked in vain.
Rarely she came inside our doors,
  And had not long to stay;
And when she left, it seemed somehow
  That she was far away.

At last, when we had all forgot
  That all is here to change,
A shadow on the commonplace
  Was for a moment strange.
Yet there was nothing for surprise,
  Nor much that need be told:
Love, with his gift of pain, had given
  More than one heart could hold.

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