Classic Poem

In a procrastinating car
That slowly jogged along Broadway,—
She on some pious errand bound,
I to a matinée.

The Little Sister of the Poor
Who faced me, gave me one long glance:
A commentary on our lives,
On fate and circumstance.

Her look first dwelt upon my face,
And then it traveled slowly down,
Took in my opera-glass and furs,
My rather modish gown.

“And is the world so sweet and bad?”
The saintly blue eyes seemed to ask;
“Does pleasure bring one keener joy
Than my unceasing task?

“My life comprises only this,
To toil and weep and serve and pray;
But youth and pleasure, song and gold,
Make your life bright and gay.”

And my eyes answered her, but she
Could not, perhaps, translate their glance.
“Ah, Sister, what an irony
Is outward circumstance!

“Beneath this silken bodice beats
A heart as grave as 'neath thy serge;
And, deaf to melody, it hears
Naught but its own sad dirge.

“Often it sighs for hours like yours,
A cell where it might weep unheard;
Freedom to doff the mask of smiles
By the gay world preferred.

“And if your gentle soul would pray
For hearts whose pain no tongue can tell;
Those who need prayers are in the world,—
Not in a convent-cell.”

The car stopped, and with eyes downcast
She hurried out on bright Broadway;
While I went on, with envious heart,—
A player, to a play.