Ben Trovato

 The Deacon thought. “I know them,” he began, 
“And they are all you ever heard of them— 
Allurable to no sure theorem, 
The scorn or the humility of man. 
You say ‘Can I believe it?’—and I can;
And I’m unwilling even to condemn 
The benefaction of a stratagem 
Like hers—and I’m a Presbyterian. 

“Though blind, with but a wandering hour to live, 
He felt the other woman in the fur 
That now the wife had on. Could she forgive 
All that? Apparently. Her rings were gone, 
Of course; and when he found that she had none, 
He smiled—as he had never smiled at her.”

Form: Sonnet

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