Eleanor Farjeon (Элинор Фарджон)
The Reflection
She had no life except to be what men Required of her to be. They came for sympathy, and came again For sympathy. She never knew the way her heart to spare When they were hurt or worn, Whatever one may for another bear By her was borne. They said, you give us of yourself so much! She heard them with a smile, Knowing she only gave to such and such Themselves awhile. Their interests, their frets, their loneliness, Their sorrows and despairs, She wore for them--they saw her in no dress That was not theirs. She learned to understand the solitudes When she by none was sought; Men of themselves grow sick, and in those moods Needed her not, Getting relief of others who gave things By their own purpose lit; If she too had some freshness in her springs, None wanted it. She grew accustomed to be quietly shut Away, was used to see Love limping dutifully in a rut That once ran free; She knew the signs when friends began to cast What they had asked her for-- Some asked for much, some little, all at last Asked nothing more. And when she died they sorrowed, it is true, But not for long, because They had seen some pale reflection that she threw, Not what she was.
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