A PAPER-SELLER
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Clearly, and iterant as a swinging bell, I heard across the surges of the Strand A woman's voice, and saw a woman's hand With "Votes for Women." A sudden vision fell Across my path, and made my pulses swell With agony of joy: I seemed to stand At some far hill, from whence was faintly fanned A whisper, "He descended into Hell." Sister! with foot in gutter, foot on kerb, Tasting humiliations's bitter herb In thy great calm of self laid wholly down! Thine are the thorns of Christly souls who bend To lift the world; and thou too shalt ascend To thine own Heaven and everlasting crown! Strand, London. |
TO ONE IN PRISON
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Dear! on Love's altar thou hast laid thee down, Priestess and Victim of such Sacrifice As might melt praise from very hearts of ice, But wins the scoff of sycophant and clown. Yet in that band, whose glory is the frown Of sceptred tyranny and stained device, Thou hast a place; and thee it shall suffice To tread with them the path to high renown. And I—even I, unworthy though I be— For these my wounds of utter loneliness, Tired head and sleepless eyes, some part would claim In the deep rubric of thy mystery; So may I, in proud years that rise to bless, Stand in the shadow of thine honoured name. Nov. 23—Dec. 23, 1910. |
A HOME-COMING