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 | The woman who dared |  |
VII.
Gently as thistle-downs are borne awayFrom the dry stem, went Ellen yesterday.
I heard her dying utterance; it was:
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No priest was by, so sudden was her going.
When Blount came in, there was no tenderness
In his sleek, gluttonous look; although he tried,
Behind his handkerchief, to play the mourner.
What will he do without a drudge to tread on?
Counting himself a privileged lord and master,
He'll condescend to a new victim soon,
And make some patient waiter a sad loser.
| The woman who dared | |