Ben Trovato by Edwin Arlington Robinson
The Deacon thought. â€œI know them,â€ he began,
â€œAnd they are all you ever heard of themâ€”
Allurable to no sure theorem,
The scorn or the humility of man.
You say â€˜Can I believe it?â€™â€”and I can;
And Iâ€™m unwilling even to condemn
The benefaction of a stratagem
Like hersâ€”and Iâ€™m a Presbyterian.
â€œThough 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 smiledâ€”as he had never smiled at her.â€