I broke his hope and I stained his pride.
I dragged him down in the undertide.
Alone and forsaken by me he died.
The blood that he shed is on my head
For all the while I knew that he bled—
Now I'm old.
Is there no mercy, Sister,
For the wanton whose course is spent?
When a woman is lovely the world will fawn.
But not when her beauty and grace are gone,
When her face is seamed and her limbs are drawn.
I've had my day and I've had my play.
In my winter of loneliness I must pay—
Now I'm old.
What of the morrow, Sister?
How shall the morrow be?
I must feed to the end upon remorse.
I must falter alone in my self-made course.
I must stagger alone with my self-made cross.
For I bartered my graces for silks and laces
My heart I sold for a pot of gold—
Now I'm old.
THE RED ROSE.
By A. A. P.
A white-faced wreck upon the bed she lay,
And reaped the whirlwind of her yesterday.
Before her rose the record of the past,
And sin's dark wages all were due at last.