You Wrong Me, Kate.

A poem by Wilfred S. Skeats

You wrong me, Kate, you wrong me
In harbouring the thought
That he who loves so fondly
Would injure thee in aught.
The pang that I must feel, Kate,
When dark suspicion lurks
Within thy breast, is real, Kate,
And mischievously works.

The tone with doubt inflected,
The calm, reproachful look,
The name of one suspected
In light arraignment spoke;
These, these enforce the heart-ache,
And instigate the strife,
And these, in chiefest part, take
The joy from out my life.

For bright within my soul, dear,
On Love's unsullied throne,
With absolute control, dear,
Thou reignest Queen alone.
With reverence I chose thee,
With pride I placed thee there;
And none did e'er oppose thee,
And none shall ever dare.

All womankind shall merit
A just regard from me,
And all the sex inherit
A claim to courtesy;
But none has ever claimed me
Her vassal, slave or thrall,
For Kate, my heart has named thee
The sceptred Queen of all.

Then trust me, Kate, oh! trust me,
In absence, far or near,
And judge me not unjustly,
But hold my promise dear.
Will not my word content thee?
I cannot give thee more:
Oh Kate, my Kate, repent thee,
And love me as before!

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