Classic Poem

Only a woman, the live night long,
Beating the air with her wasted hands,
And telling a story of cruel wrong,
That nobody heeds or understands.

Only a woman, without a friend
To soothe her sorrow for friendship's sake —
Whom few will pity, and none defend;
What matter, then, if her heart should break?

There is nothing new in her woe and wail;
There is nothing strange in her bitter tears;
And the tale she tells is an old, old tale,
The world has heard for a thousand years.

Only a woman, with wild, blue eyes,
Looking for something beyond her sight,
And saying from dawn till daylight dies:
" He will come — he will surely come to-night. "


He promised to wed her — the day was set,
And the trousseau laid on the bridal bed,
But the day is past — did he forget
The appointed time? Is he ill, or dead?

Nay, he is away over land and sea,
From the love he won, and the wreck he left;
He has not forgotten — but what cares he
For a broken vow, to a ruined weft?

True, she was happy and well to do,
In her humble home and honest fame,
Till the luckless day he came to woo
The love that cankered to sin and shame.

But he is Patrician — born and bred
In the regal purple of wealth and place;
It was only his right he thought, and said,
" To kiss the bloom from a fair, sweet face. "

Was his the fault that she loved too well?
Was he to blame for her foolish trust?
The record they keep in Heaven will tell;
And the day will come, for God is just.

He moves serene in his orbit now
With his ways and words so sweet and bland —
No visible mark on his lofty brow,
No stain of blood on his soft, white hand.
Doest he ever think of the idyl, read
That summer time, in a fairy bower?
Does he ever regret the careless tread,
That crushed the heart of a wayside flower?

No matter — the years will come and go;
Her heart will bleed and her eyes grow dim;
And, although " the mills of God grind slow, "
They are grinding a fearful grist for him.