And then he drew the soul of a man,

Brutal and base and blind;

And the woman loved in the old, old way,

And the man in the way of men,

And the poet christened their lives "A Play,"

And he sat down to watch it, and then ...

A woman rose with a bitter laugh,

And her eyes were as dry as stone

As she bowed her head at the poet's stall

And said in a strange, cold tone:

"He paints the best who has dipped his brush

In the heart's own blood, they say;

You took my love and you took my life,

But you gave the world—a play!"

[28]

[28]

THE DERELICT.

North and south with the fickle tides,

With the wind from east to west,

The death-ship follows her track of doom,

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