| Edwin Arlington Robinson (1869–1935). Collected Poems. 1921. |
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| VIII. Avon’s Harvest, Etc. |
| 3. Ben Trovato |
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| 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; | 5 |
| And I’m unwilling even to condemn | |
| The benefaction of a stratagem | |
| Like hers—and I’m a Presbyterian. | |
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| “Though blind, with but a wandering hour to live, | |
| He felt the other woman in the fur | 10 |
| 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.” | |
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