In eighteen hundred seventy-two, one day,
A girl in New York’s streets, lost, made her way.

With clothes of mud, she spoke in French, distressed,
The crowd did try, yet none her mind addressed.

Her memory was gone, she knew no name,
A soul adrift in grief and silent shame.

A charity, French-born, helped her regain,
Her health, her past, and eased her heavy pain.

The daughter of a man of great renown,
Victor Hugo, whose fame had spread through town.

Her tale would break her father’s heart in two,
As she, for fifteen years, in exile grew.

Beside him on an isle so far from home,
They shared their days beneath the British dome.

But love misled her fragile heart’s pure core,
For Alfred, whom she followed shore to shore.

A British soldier, cruel, with heart untrue,
She crossed the seas for him, but sorrow grew.

In Nova Scotia’s lands, she chased his flight,
He drained her wealth, then vanished from her sight.

With no one left, no friend nor coin to hold,
She wandered, broke, in New York’s streets, so cold.

Returned to France, her spirit crushed and low,
Her silent vow from lips no word would flow.

For forty years, from heartache never free,
She spoke no more—no sound, no voice, no plea.

Her father tried to mend her shattered will,
But silence ruled her days, her nights grew still.

Her record stands, the longest silent vow,
In human lore, no voice will break it now.

Beware, O man, the hearts that break in pain,
For shattered souls may never speak again.