You knew I hated pain, or worry, or anything which put my comfortable life out of gear.

So you gladly let me go, leaving you to bear it all alone.

You knew that, had you told me, I should have given up my book and stayed with you; because my self-love would have been more wounded by going than by staying.

But you also knew that during all those months you would have had to listen while I bemoaned the circumstances, and bewailed my plot.

You knew the bloom would be taken off the coming joy, so you preferred to let me go.