the woman who suffered. His wife Goes her way well contented. Love was in her life But an incident; while to this other, dear God, It was all; on what sharp, burning ploughshares she trod, Down what chasms she leaped, how she tossed the whole world, Like a dead rose, behind her, to lie and be whirled In the maelstrom of love for one moment. Ah, brief Is the rapture such souls find, and long is their grief, Black their sin, blurred their record, and scarlet their shame. And yet when I think of them, sorrow, not blame, Stirs my being. Blind passion is only the weed Of fair, beautiful love. Both are sprung from one seed; One grows wild, one is trained and directed. Condemn The hand that neglected—but ah! pity them. Surgeon: You speak with much feeling. But now, if the friends Of this man are to see him before his life ends I recommend action on your part. His stay On this planet, I fear, will be finished to-day. A man who neglects and abuses his wife, Who gives her at best but the dregs of his life, In the hey day of health, when he's drained his last cup Has a fashion of wanting to settle things up. Craves forgiveness, and hopes with a few final tears To wash out the sins and the insults of years. Call your friend; bid her hasten, lest lips that are dumb, Having wasted life's feast, shall refuse her death's crumb. Ruth: There are souls to whom crumbs are sufficient, at least They seem not to value love's opulent feast. They neglect, they ignore, they abuse, or destroy What to some poor starved life had been earth's rarest joy. 'Tis a curious fact that love's banqueting table Full often is spread for the guest the least able To do the feast justice. The gods take delight In offering crusts to the starved appetite And rich fruits, to the sated or sickly. The eyes Of the surgeon were fixed on Ruth's face with a wise Knowing look in their depths, and he said to himself, "There's a mystery here which young Cupid, sly elf, Could account for. I judge by her voice and her face That the wife of this man holds no very warm place In Miss Somerville's heart, though she names her as friend. Ah, full many a drama has come to an end 'Neath the walls of Bellevue, and the curtain will fall On one actor to-night; though the audience call, He will make no response, once he passes from view, For Death is the prompter who gives him the cue." The eyes The wisest minds err. When a clergyman tries To tell a man where he
Prev.
Back
Top