MAGDALENE.
A woman in her youth, but lost to all The joys of innocence. Love she had known, Such love as leaves the soul filled full of shame. Passion was hers, hate and impurity, The gnawing of remorse, the longing vain To lose the mark of sin, the scarlet flush Of fallen womanhood, the envy of The spotless, the desire that they might sink Low in the mire as she. Oh, what a soul She carried on that day! The women drew Their robes back from her touch, men leered, And children seemed afraid to meet The devilish beauty of her form and face. Shunned and alone, Till One came to her side, And spake her name, and took her hand in His. And what He said Is past the telling. There are things the heart Knows well, but cannot blazon to the world; And when He went His way, Upon her brow, where shame had lain, Was set the one sweet word: Forgiveness.
MY LADY NIGHTINGALE.
I heard you singing in the grove, My Lady Nightingale; The thirsty leaves were drinking dew, And all the sky was pale.
A silence—clear as bells of peace Your song thrilled on the air, Each liquid note a thing of joy, And sweet beyond compare.
Not all of joy—a haunting strain Of sorrow and of tears, A note of grief which seemed to voice The sadness of the years.
'Twas pure, 'twas clear, 'twas wondrous sweet, My Lady Nightingale, Yet subtly sad, the song you sang When all the sky was pale.