The soul’s most glorious prize,—that thing eterne?
Cut off by one weak, frail, ’gainst-nature act,—
By use of sword, or gun, or poisoned vial,—
What hope exists the prize of life to win,
When every means therefor is wrested ’way,
And our life’s strength ebbs out in the warping clay?
A WOMAN’S HEART
What mystery!
It is to me a most strange questioning,
That man would hold what hearts he captivates