THROUGH DIM EYES.

Is it the world, or my eyes, that are sadder?I see not the grace that I used to seeIn the meadow‑brook whose song was so glad, orIn the boughs of the willow tree.The brook runs slower—its song seems lower,And not the song that it sang of old;And the tree I admired looks weary and tiredOf the changeless story of heat and cold.When the sun goes up, and the stars go under,In that supreme hour of the breaking day,Is it my eyes, or the dawn I wonder,That finds less of the gold, and more of the gray?I see not the splendor, the tints so tender,The rose‑hued glory I used to see;And I often borrow a vague half‑sorrowThat another morning has dawned for me.When the royal smile of that welcome comerBeams on the meadow and burns in the sky,Is it my eyes, or does the SummerBring less of bloom than in days gone by?The beauty that thrilled me, the rapture that filled me,To an overflowing of happy tears,I pass unseeing, my sad eyes beingDimmed by the shadow of vanished years.When the heart grows weary, all things seem dreary;When the burden grows heavy, the way seems long.Thank God for sending kind death as an ending,Like a grand Amen to a minor song.

When was it that love died? We were so fond,So very fond, a little while ago.With leaping pulses, and blood all aglow,We dreamed about a sweeter life beyond,When we should dwell together as one heart,And scarce could wait that happy time to come.Now side by side we sit with lips quite dumb,And feel ourselves a thousand miles apart.How was it that love died! I do not know.I only know that all its grace untoldHas faded into gray! I miss the goldFrom our dull skies; but did not see it go.Why should love die? We prized it, I am sure;We thought of nothing else when it was ours;We cherished it in smiling, sunlit bowers;It was our all; why could it not endure?Alas, we know not how, or when or whyThis dear thing died. We only know it went,And left us dull, cold, and indifferent;We who found heaven once in each other's sigh.How pitiful it is, and yet how trueThat half the lovers in the world, one day,Look questioning in each other's eyes this wayAnd know love's gone forever, as we do.Sometimes I cannot help but think, dear heart,As I look out o'er all the wide, sad earthAnd see love's flame gone out on many a hearth,That those who would keep love must dwell apart.

Not they who know the awful gibbet's anguish,Not they who, while sad years go by them, inThe sunless cells of lonely prisons languish,Do suffer fullest penalty for sin.'Tis they who walk the highways unsuspectedYet with grim fear forever at their side,Who hug the corpse of some sin undetected,A corpse no grave or coffin‑lid can hide—'Tis they who are in their own chambers hauntedBy thoughts that like unbidden guests intrude,And sit down, uninvited and unwanted,And make a nightmare of the solitude.

I feel the stirrings in me of great things.New half‑fledged thoughts rise up and beat their wings,And tremble on the margin of their nest,Then flutter back, and hide within my breast.Beholding space, they doubt their untried strength.Beholding men, they fear them. But at lengthGrown all too great and active for the heartThat broods them with such tender mother art,Forgetting fear, and men, and all, that hour,Save the impelling consciousness of powerThat stirs within them—they shall soar awayUp to the very portals of the Day.Oh, what exultant rapture thrills me throughWhen I contemplate all those thoughts may do;Like snow‑white eagles penetrating space,They may explore full many an unknown place,And build their nests on mountain heights unseen,Whereon doth lie that dreamed‑of rest serene.Stay thou a little longer in my breast,Till my fond heart shall push thee from the nest,Anxious to see thee soar to heights divine—Oh, beautiful but half‑fledged thoughts of mine.

(Vers de Société.)We'll cover Love with roses,And sweet sleep he shall take.None but a fool supposesLove always keeps awake.I've known loves without number.True loves were they, and tried;And just for want of slumberThey pined away and died.Our love was bright and cheerfulA little while agone;Now he is pale and tearful,And—yes, I've seen him yawn.So tired is he of kissesThat he can only weep;The one dear thing he missesAnd longs for now is sleep.We could not let him leave usOne time, he was so dear,But now it would not grieve usIf he slept half a year.For he has had his season,Like the lily and the rose,And it but stands to reasonThat he should want repose.We prized the smiling CupidWho made our days so bright;But he has grown so stupidWe gladly say good‑night.And if he wakens tenderAnd fond, and fair as whenHe filled our lives with splendor,We'll take him back again.And should he never waken,As that perchance may be,We will not weep forsaken,But sing, "Love, tra‑la‑lee!"

The highest culture is to speak no ill;The best reformer is the man whose eyesAre quick to see all beauty and all worth;And by his own discreet, well‑ordered life,Alone reproves the erring.When they gazeTurns it on thine own soul, be most severe.But when it falls upon a fellow‑manLet kindliness control it; and refrainFrom that belittling censure that springs forthFrom common lips like weeds from marshy soil.

Oh, I am sick of love reciprocated,Of hopes fulfilled, ambitions gratified.Life holds no thing to be anticipated,And I am sad from being satisfied.The eager joy felt climbing up the mountainHas left me now the highest point is gained.The crystal spray that fell from Fame's fair fountainWas sweeter than the waters were when drained.The gilded apple which the world calls pleasure,And which I purchased with my youth and strength,Pleased me a moment. But the empty treasureLost all its lustre, and grew dim at length.And love, all glowing with a golden glory,Delighted me a season with its tale.It pleased the longest, but at last the storySo oft repeated, to my heart grew stale.I lived for self, and all I asked was given,I have had all, and now am sick of bliss,No other punishment designed by HeavenCould strike me half so forcibly as this.I feel no sense of aught but enervationIn all the joys my selfish aims have brought,And know no wish but for annihilation,Since that would give me freedom from the thought.Oh, blest is he who has some aim defeated;Some mighty loss to balance all his gain.For him there is a hope not yet completed;For him hath life yet draughts of joy and pain.But cursed is he who has no balked ambition,No hopeless hope, no loss beyond repair,But sick and sated with complete fruition,Keeps not the pleasure even of despair.

What can be said in New Year rhymes,That's not been said a thousand times?The new years come, the old years go,We know we dream, we dream we know.We rise up laughing with the light,We lie down weeping with the night.We hug the world until it stings,We curse it then and sigh for wings.We live, we love, we woo, we wed,We wreathe our brides, we sheet our dead.We laugh, we weep, we hope, we fear,And that's the burden of the year.

A vision beauteous as the morn,With heavenly eyes and tresses streaming,Slow glided o'er a field late shornWhere walked a poet idly dreaming.He saw her, and joy lit his face,"Oh, vanish not at human speaking,"He cried, "thou form of magic grace,Thou art the poem I am seeking."I've sought thee long! I claim thee now—My thought embodied, living, real."She shook the tresses from her brow."Nay, nay!" she said, "I am ideal.I am the phantom of desire—The spirit of all great endeavor,I am the voice that says, 'Come higher,'That calls men up and up forever."'Tis not alone thy thought supremeThat here upon thy path has risen;I am the artist's highest dream,The ray of light he cannot prison.I am the sweet ecstatic noteThan all glad music gladder, clearer,That trembles in the singer's throat,And dies without a human hearer."I am the greater, better yield,That leads and cheers thy farmer neighbor,For me he bravely tills the fieldAnd whistles gayly at his labor.Not thou alone, O poet soul,Dost seek me through an endless morrow,But to the toiling, hoping wholeI am at once the hope and sorrow.The spirit of the unattained,I am to those who seek to name me,A good desired but never gained.All shall pursue, but none shall claim me."

How happy they are, in all seeming,How gay, or how smilingly proud,How brightly their faces are beaming,These people who make up the crowd.How they bow, how they bend, how they flutter,How they look at each other and smile,How they glow, and whatbon motsthey utter!But a strange thought has found me the while!It is odd, but I stand here and fancyThese people who now play a part,All forced by some strange necromancyTo speak, and to act, from the heart.What a hush would come over the laughter!What a silence would fall on the mirth!And then what a wail would sweep after,As the night‑wind sweeps over the earth.If the secrets held under and hiddenIn the intricate hearts of the crowd,Were suddenly called to, and biddenTo rise up and cry out aloud,How strange one would look to another!Old friends of long standing and years—Own brothers would not know each other,Robed new in their sorrows and fears.From broadcloth, and velvet, and laces,Would echo the groans of despair,And there would be blanching of facesAnd wringing of hands and of hair.That man with his record of honor,That lady down there with the rose,That girl with Spring's freshness upon her,Who knoweth the secrets of those?Smile on, O ye maskers, smile sweetly!Step lightly, bow low and laugh loud!Though the world is deceived and completely,I know ye, O sad‑hearted crowd!I watch you with infinite pity:But play on, play ever your part,Be gleeful, be joyful, be witty!'Tis better than showing the heart.

Life and I are lovers, strayingArm in arm along:Often like two children Maying,Full of mirth and song.Life plucks all the blooming hoursGrowing by the way;Binds them on my brow like flowers;Calls me Queen of May.Then again, in rainy weather,We sit vis‑a‑vis,Planning work we'll do togetherIn the years to be.Sometimes Life denies me blisses,And I frown or pout;But we make it up with kissesEre the day is out.Woman‑like, I sometimes grieve him,Try his trust and faith,Saying I shall one day leave himFor his rival Death.Then he always grows more zealous,Tender, and more true;Loves the more for being jealous,As all lovers do.Though I swear by stars above him,And by worlds beyond,That I love him—love him—love him;Though my heart is fond;Though he gives me, doth my lover,Kisses with each breath—I shall one day throw him over,And plight troth with Death.

Upon the white cheek of the Cherub YearI saw a tear.Alas! I murmured, that the Year should borrowSo soon a sorrow.Just then the sunlight fell with sudden flame:The tear becameA wond'rous diamond sparkling in the light—A beauteous sight.Upon my soul there fell such woeful loss,I said, "The CrossIs grievous for a life as young as mine."Just then, like wine,God's sunlight shone from His high Heavens down;And lo! a crownGleamed in the place of what I thought a burden—My sorrow's guerdon.

Of a thousand things that the Year snowed under—The busy Old Year who has gone away—How many will rise in the Spring, I wonder,Brought to life by the sun of May?Will the rose‑tree branches, so wholly hiddenThat never a rose‑tree seems to be,At the sweet Spring's call come forth unbidden,And bud in beauty, and bloom for me?Will the fair, green Earth, whose throbbing bosomIs hid like a maid's in her gown at night,Wake out of her sleep, and with blade and blossomGem her garments to please my sight?Over the knoll in the valley yonderThe loveliest buttercups bloomed and grew;When the snow has gone that drifted them under,Will they shoot up sunward, and bloom anew?When wild winds blew, and a sleet‑storm pelted,I lost a jewel of priceless worth;If I walk that way when snows have melted,Will the gem gleam up from the bare, brown Earth?I laid a love that was dead or dying,For the year to bury and hide from sight;But out of a trance will it waken, crying,And push to my heart, like a leaf to the light?Under the snow lie things so cherished—Hopes, ambitions, and dreams of men—Faces that vanished, and trusts that perished,Never to sparkle and glow again.The Old Year greedily grasped his plunder,And covered it over and hurried away:Of the thousand things that he did, I wonderHow many will rise at the call of May?O wise Young Year, with your hands held underYour mantle of ermine, tell me, pray!

I knew it the first of the Summer—I knew it the same at the end—That you and your love were plighted,But couldn't you be my friend?Couldn't we sit in the twilight,Couldn't we walk on the shore,With only a pleasant friendshipTo bind us, and nothing more?There was never a word of nonsenseSpoken between us two,Though we lingered oft in the gardenTill the roses were wet with dew.We touched on a thousand subjects—The moon and the stars above;But our talk was tinctured with science,With never a hint of love."A wholly platonic friendship,"You said I had proved to you,"Could bind a man and a womanThe whole long season through,With never a thought of folly,Though both are in their youth."What would you have said, my lady,If you had known the truth?Had I done what my mad heart prompted—Gone down on my knees to you,And told you my passionate storyThere in the dusk and dew;My burning, burdensome story,Hidden and hushed so long,My story of hopeless loving—Say, would you have thought it wrong?But I fought with my heart and conquered:I hid my wound from sight;You were going away in the morningAnd I said a calm good‑night.But now, when I sit in the twilightOr when I walk by the sea,That friendship quite "platonic"Comes surging over me.And a passionate longing fills meFor the roses, the dusk and the dew,—For the beautiful Summer vanished—For the moonlit talks—and you.

What does our country need? Not armies standingWith sabres gleaming ready for the fight.Not increased navies, skillful and commanding,To bound the waters with an iron might.Not haughty men with glutted purses tryingTo purchase souls, and keep the power of place.Not jeweled dolls with one another vieingFor palms of beauty, elegance and grace.But we want women, strong of soul, yet lowly,With that rare meekness, born of gentleness,Women whose lives are pure and clean and holy,The women whom all little children bless.Brave, earnest women, helpful to each other,With finest scorn for all things low and mean.Women who hold the names of wife and mother,Far nobler than the title of a Queen.O these are they who mold the men of story,These mothers, ofttimes shorn of grace and youth,Who, worn and weary, ask no greater gloryThan making some young soul the home of truth,Who sow in hearts all fallow for the sowingThe seeds of virtue and of scorn for sin,And, patient, watch the beauteous harvest growingAnd weed out tares which crafty hands cast in.Women who do not hold the gift of beautyAs some rare treasure to be bought and sold,But guard it as a precious aid to duty—The outer framing of the inner gold;Women who, low above their cradles bending,Let flattery's voice go by, and give no heed,While their pure prayers like incense are ascending:Theseare our country's pride, our country's need.

Toward even when the day leans downTo kiss the upturned face of night,Out just beyond the loud‑voiced townI know a spot of calm delight.Like crimson arrows from a quiverThe red rays pierce the waters flowingWhile we go dreaming, singing, rowingTo Leudemann's‑on‑the‑River.The hills, like some glad mocking‑bird,Send back our laughter and our singing,While faint—and yet more faint is heardThe steeple bells all sweetly ringing.Some message did the winds deliverTo each glad heart that August night,All heard, but all heard not aright;By Leudemann's‑on‑the‑River.Night falls as in some foreign clime,Between the hills that slope and rise.So dusk the shades at landing time,We could not see each other's eyes.We only saw the moonbeams quiverFar down upon the stream! that nightThe new moon gave but little lightBy Leudemann's‑on‑the‑River.How dusky were those paths that ledUp from the river to the hall.The tall trees branching overheadInvite the early shades that fall.In all the glad blithe world, oh, neverWere hearts more free from care than whenWe wandered through those walks, we ten,By Leudemann's‑on‑the‑River.So soon, so soon, the changes came.This August day we two alone,On that same river, not the same,Dream of a night forever flown.Strange distances have come to severThe hearts that gayly beat in pleasure,Long miles we cannot cross or measure—From Leudemann's‑on‑the‑River.We'll pluck two leaves, dear friend, to‑day.The green, the russet! seems it strangeSo soon, so soon, the leaves can change!Ah, me! so runs all life away.This night wind chills me, and I shiver;The Summer time is almost past.One more good‑bye—perhaps the lastTo Leudemann's‑on‑the‑River.

In the long run fame finds the deserving man.The lucky wight may prosper for a day,But in good time true merit leads the van,And vain pretense, unnoticed, goes its way.There is no Chance, no Destiny, no Fate,But Fortune smiles on those who work and wait,In the long run.In the long run all goodly sorrow pays,There is no better thing than righteous pain,The sleepless nights, the awful thorn‑crowned days,Bring sure reward to tortured soul and brain.Unmeaning joys enervate in the end.But sorrow yields a glorious dividendIn the long run.In the long run all hidden things are known,The eye of truth will penetrate the night,And good or ill, thy secret shall be known,However well 'tis guarded from the light.All the unspoken motives of the breastAre fathomed by the years and stand confestIn the long run.In the long run all love is paid by love,Though undervalued by the hosts of earth;The great eternal Government aboveKeeps strict account and will redeem its worth.Give thy love freely; do not count the cost;So beautiful a thing was never lostIn the long run.

O Science reaching backward through the distance,Most earnest child of God,Exposing all the secrets of existence,With thy divining rod,I bid thee speed up to the heights supernal,Clear thinker, ne'er sufficed;Go seek and bind the laws and truths eternal,But leave me Christ.Upon the vanity of pious sagesLet in the light of day.Break down the superstitions of all ages—Thrust bigotry away;Stride on, and bid all stubborn foes defianceLet Truth and Reason reign.But I beseech thee, O Immortal Science,Let Christ remain.What canst thou give to help me bear my crosses,In place of Him, my Lord?And what to recompense for all my losses,And bring me sweet reward?Thoucouldst not with thy clear, cold eyes of reason,Thou couldst not comfort meLike one who passed through that tear‑blotted season,In sad Gethsemane!Through all the weary, wearing hour of sorrow,What word that thou hast said,Would make me strong to wait for some to‑morrowWhen I should find my dead?When I am weak, and desolate, and lonely—And prone to follow wrong?Not thou, O Science—Christ, my Savior, onlyCan make me strong.Thou are so cold, so lofty and so distant,Though great my need might be,No prayer, however constant and persistent,Could bring thee down to me.Christ stands so near, to help me through each hour,To guide me day by day.O Science, sweeping all before thy powerLeave Christ, I pray!

Let us clear a little space,And make Love a burial place.He is dead, dear, as you see,And he wearies you and me,Growing heavier, day by day,Let us bury him, I say.Wings of dead white butterflies,These shall shroud him, as he liesIn his casket rich and rare,Made of finest maiden‑hair.With the pollen of the roseLet us his white eye‑lids close.Put the rose thorn in his hand,Shorn of leaves—you understand.Let some holy water fallOn his dead face, tears of gall—As we kneel by him and say,"Dreams to dreams," and turn away.Those grave diggers, Doubt, Distrust,They will lower him to the dust.Let us part here with a kiss,You go that way, I go this.Since we buried Love to‑dayWe will walk a separate way.

Every morning and every nightThere passes our window near the street,A little girl with an eye so bright,And a cheek so round and a lip so sweet;The daintiest, jauntiest little missThat ever any one longed to kiss.She is neat as wax, and fresh to view,And her look is wholesome and clean, and good.Whatever her gown, her hood is blue,And so we call her our "Little Blue Hood,"For we know not the name of the dear little lass,But we call to each other to see her pass."Little Blue Hood is coming now!"And we watch from the window while she goes by,She has such a bonny, smooth, white brow,And a fearless look in her long‑lashed eye;And a certain dignity wedded to grace,Seems to envelop her form and face.Every morning, in sun or rain,She walks by the window with sweet, grave air,And never guesses behind the paneWe two are watching and thinking her fair;Lovingly watching her down the street,Dear little Blue Hood, bright and sweet.Somebody ties that hood of blueUnder the face so fair to see,Somebody loves her, beside we two,Somebody kisses her—why can't we?Dear Little Blue Hood fresh and fair,Are you glad we love you, or don't you care?

Up from the South come the birds that were banished,Frightened away by the presence of frost.Back to the vale comes the verdure that vanished,Back to the forest the leaves that were lost.Over the hillside the carpet of splendor,Folded through Winter, Spring spreads down again;Along the horizon, the tints that were tender,Lost hues of Summer time, burn bright as then.Only the mountains' high summits are hoary,To the ice‑fettered river the sun gives a key.Once more the gleaming shore lists to the storyTold by an amorous Summer‑kissed sea.All things revive that in Winter time perished,The rose buds again in the light o' the sun,All that was beautiful, all that was cherished,Sweet things and dear things and all things—save one.Late, when the year and the roses were lyingLow with the ruins of Summer and bloom,Down in the dust fell a love that was dying,And the snow piled above it, and made it a tomb.Lo! now! the roses are budded for blossom—Lo! now! the Summer is risen again.Why dost thou bud not, O Love of my bosom?Why dost thou rise not, and thrill me as then?Life without love, is a year without Summer,Heart without love, is a wood without song.Rise then, revive then, thou indolent comer,Why dost thou lie in the dark earth so long?Rise! ah, thou canst not! the rose‑tree that sheddestIts beautiful leaves, in the Spring time may bloom,But of cold things the coldest, of dead things the deadest,Love buried once, rises not from the tomb.Green things may grow on the hillside and heather,Birds seek the forest and build there and sing.All things revive in the beautiful weather,But unto a dead love there cometh no Spring.

Now we must part, my Lippo. Even so,I grieve to see thy sudden pained surprise;Gaze not on me with such accusing eyes—'T was thine own hand which dealt dear Love's death‑blow.I loved thee fondly yesterday. Till thenThy heart was like a covered golden cupAlways above my eager lip held up.I fancied thou wert not as other men.I knew that heart was filled with Love's sweet wine,Pressed wholly for my drinking. And my lipGrew parched with thirsting for one nectared sipOf what, denied me, seemed a draught divine.Last evening, in the gloaming, that cup spilledIts precious contents. Even to the leesWere offered to me, saying, "Drink of these!"And when I saw it empty, Love was killed.No word was left unsaid, no act undone,To prove to me thou wert my abject slave.Ah, Love! hadst thou been wise enough to saveOne little drop of that sweet wine—but one—I still had loved thee, longing for it then.But even the cup is mine. I look within,And find it holds not one last drop to win,And cast it down.—Thou art as other men.

After the May time, and after the June timeRare with blossoms and perfumes sweet,Cometh the round world's royal noon time,The red midsummer of blazing heat.When the sun, like an eye that never closes,Bends on the earth its fervid gaze,And the winds are still, and the crimson rosesDroop and wither and die in its rays.Unto my heart has come that season,O my lady, my worshiped one,When over the stars of Pride and ReasonSails Love's cloudless, noonday sun.Like a great red ball in my bosom burningWith fires that nothing can quench or tame.It glows till my heart itself seems turningInto a liquid lake of flame.The hopes half shy, and the sighs all tender,The dreams and fears of an earlier day,Under the noontide's royal splendor,Droop like roses and wither away.From the hills of doubt no winds are blowing,From the isle of pain no breeze is sent.Only the sun in a white heat glowingOver an ocean of great content.Sink, O my soul, in this golden glory,Die, O my heart, in thy rapture‑swoon,For the Autumn must come with its mournful story,And Love's midsummer will fade too soon.

I saw the wild honey‑bee kissing a roseA wee one, that growsDown low on the bush, where her sisters aboveCannot see all that's doneAs the moments roll on.Nor hear all the whispers and murmurs of love.They flaunt out their beautiful leaves in the sun,And they flirt, every one,With the wild bees who pass, and the gay butterflies.And that wee thing in pink—Why, they never once thinkThat she's won a lover right under their eyes.It reminded me, Kate, of a time—you know when!You were so petite then,Your dresses were short, and your feet were so small.Your sisters, Maud‑BelleAnd Madeline—well,Theybothset their caps for me, after that ball.How the blue eyes and black eyes smiled up in my face!'T was a neck‑and‑neck race,Till that day when you opened the door in the hall,And looked up and looked down,With your sweet eyes of brown,Andyouseemed so tiny, andIfelt so tall.Your sisters had sent you to keep me, my dear,Till they should appear.Then you were dismissed like a child in disgrace.How meekly you went!But your brown eyes, they sentA thrill to my heart, and a flush to my face.We always were meeting some way after that.You hung up my hat,And got it again, when I finished my call.Sixteen, andsosweet!Oh, those cute little feet!Shall I ever forget how they tripped down the hall?Shall I ever forget the first kiss by the door,Or the vows murmured o'er,Or the rage and surprise of Maud‑Belle? Well‑a‑day,How swiftly time flows,And who would supposeThat abeecould have carried me so far away.

The mighty conflict, which we call existence,Doth wear upon the body and the soul.Our vital forces wasted in resistance,So much there is to conquer and control.The rock which meets the billows with defiance.Undaunted and unshaken day by day,In spite of its unyielding self‑reliance,Is by the warfare surely worn away.And there are depths and heights of strong emotionsThat surge at times within the human breast,More fierce than all the tides of all the oceansWhich sweep on ever in divine unrest.I sometimes think the rock worn with adventures,And sad with thoughts of conflicts yet to be,Must envy the frail reed which no one censures,When overcome 'tis swallowed by the sea.This life is all resistance and repression,Dear God, if in that other world unseen,Not rest, we find, but new life and progression,Grant us a respite in the grave between.

Across the miles that stretch between,Through days of gloom or glad sunlight,There shines a face I have not seenWhich yet doth make my world more bright.He may be near, he may be far,Or near or far I cannot see,But faithful as the morning starHe yet shall rise and come to me.What though fate leads us separate ways,The world is round, and time is fleet.A journey of a few brief days,And face to face we two shall meet.Shall meet beneath God's arching skies,While suns shall blaze, or stars shall gleam,And looking in each other's eyesShall hold the past but as a dream.But round and perfect and complete,Life like a star shall climb the height,As we two press with willing feetTogether toward the Infinite.And still behind the space between,As back of dawns the sunbeams play,There shines the face I have not seen,Whose smile shall wake my world to Day.

One leaned on velvet cushions like a queen—To see him pass, the hero of an hour,Whom men called great. She bowed with languid mien,And smiled, and blushed, and knew her beauty's power.One trailed her tinseled garments through the street,And thrust aside the crowd, and found a placeSo near, the blooded courser's praning feetCast sparks of fire upon her painted face.One took the hot‑house blossoms from her breast,And tossed them down, as he went riding by.And blushed rose‑red to see them fondly pressedTo bearded lips, while eye spoke unto eye.One, bold and hardened with her sinful life,Yet shrank and shivered painfully, becauseHis cruel glance cut keener than a knife,The glance of him who made her what she was.One was observed, and lifted up to fame,Because the hero smiled upon her! whileOne who was shunned and hated, found her shameIn basking in the death‑light of his smile.

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