I was thinking But yesterday how like and how unlike Have been, and are, our destinies.

Your husband, The good Vespasian, an old man, who seemed A father to you rather than a husband, Died in your arms; but mine, in all the flower And promise of his youth, was taken from me As by a rushing wind.

The breath of battle Breathed on him, and I saw his face no more, Save as in dreams it haunts me.

As our love Was for these men, so is our sorrow for them.
Yours a child's sorrow, smiling through its tears; But mine the grief of an impassioned woman, Who drank her life up in one draught of love.
JULIA.
Behold this locket.

This is the white hair Of my Vespasian.