THE ACE OF HEARTS.
I NEVER can see the ace of hearts
(Like a single splash of bright, red blood),
But a train of awful memory starts
And o’er me whirls like a seething flood.
I see the flash of a wicked knife
That settles for all the hot dispute—
A cruel end to a sweet young life,
A boyish face lying white and mute.
I can see it all—the lurid light
From th’ open fire on the mountaineers—
The far Sierras gleam cold and white,
And through the forest the wan moon peers.
My deal again—and again the ace
That horrid train of memory starts:
I can always see that dead boy’s face
And his cold hands clutching the ace of hearts.
Edith Sessions Tupper.
