Never was there a man much uglier 
In eyes of other women, or more grim: 
"The Lord has filled her chalice to the brim, 
So let us pray she's a philosopher," 
They said; and there was more they said of her-- 
Deeming it, after twenty years with him, 
No wonder that she kept her figure slim 
And always made you think of lavender.

But she, demure as ever, and as fair, 
Almost, as they remembered her before 
She found him, would have laughed had she been there, 
And all they said would have been heard no more 
Than foam that washes on an island shore 
Where there are none to listen or to care.