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How dwarfed against his manliness she sees the poor pretension, the wants, the aims, the follies, born of fashion and convention!
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Of all sad words of tongue and pen the saddest are these, what might have been.
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Went drearily singing the chore-girl small, Draping each hive with a shred of black.
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Oh, for boyhood's painless play, sleep that wakes in laughing day, health that mocks the doctor's rules, knowledge never learned of schools.
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For of all sad words of tongue or pen, The saddest are these 'It might have been'
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