Poems (Procter)/Envy

by Adelaide Anne Procter

ENVY.

E was the first always: Fortune
 Shone bright in his face.
I fought for years; with no effort
 He conquered the place:
We ran; my feet were all bleeding,
 But he won the race.

Spite of his many successes,
 Men loved him the same;
My one pale ray of good fortune
 Met scoffing and blame.
When we erred, they gave him pity,
 But me—only shame.

My home was still in the shadow,
 His lay in the sun:
I longed in vain: what he asked for
 It straightway was done.
Once I staked all my heart's treasure,
 We played—and he won.

Yes; and just now I have seen him,
 Cold, smiling, and blest,
Laid in his coffin. God help me!
 While he is at rest,
I am cursed still to live:—even
 Death loved him the best.