You mustn’t, Simeon.
But then, what else?
You give so much,
You’d never give yourself away
And never mourn the loss.
What agony for those who watch,
Who cannot help,
Who find no right by word or look
To stay your heart or stem your hope
Of ...what? Oh, she
can cook and mend and smile
And “She’s not happy” is your plea,
Despairing and beseeching still -
But neither is her husband, Simeon.
Is, not was. Her
husband is.
The trust is gone, the seams have sprung,
To have, to hold for one short year,
To cherish...
Strange word. In
sickness and in health,
In sickness now -
In sickness, darkness, broken faith and utter lack of
charity.
“You see, she broke...and left...and asked my help.”
And you?
Oh, Simeon, we do not know;
We only guess and fear and pray
And breathe “you must not, must not...”
You ache to help, to hold, to have
Her happiness,
Which doesn’t matter.
No,
It’s what you do with her unhappiness that counts,
For that is real and that is precious,
All that’s left of one spring morning
When marriages were made in heaven...
Let no man put assunder
Her anguish from her soul;
Twelve pride-full months are not from this time forth;
Her erring husband’s sickness must be cherished,
May be healed.
Oh, Simeon, you must not;
Deny yourself,
Dare not to kill unhappiness;
If she has pain (maybe for you) then she can feel
And even now she holds the grace to love.
So then, kiss pain away, my Simeon
- and win a love-dead heart.
How can we help, how can we hope?
Darkness stretches round your eyes,
Indecision frets your mouth
And wearies you.
Simeon, love her more, much more,
And let her go still broken.
(Undated, between 1966 and 1970?)
