 | Women must weep |  |
THE CRACK.
Perfect it, but for the crack—
For the tiny, trifling rift,
None would notice in a gift,
Which could show no other lack—
Perfect as the moonlight's track;
And the clouds that darken lift,
As the coldest breeze may shift,
And bring June and roses back
To the patience and the thrift;
So might it not take a fairer tack,
And not doom'd, a desperate, helpless wrack,
Down the fatal current drift?
For the tiny, trifling rift,
None would notice in a gift,
Which could show no other lack—
Perfect as the moonlight's track;
And the clouds that darken lift,
As the coldest breeze may shift,
And bring June and roses back
To the patience and the thrift;
So might it not take a fairer tack,
And not doom'd, a desperate, helpless wrack,
Down the fatal current drift?
110
Perfect, but for the one flaw,
Just a little touch like this,
That a mortal eye might miss,
As it overlooks a straw—
Sweeter form none ever saw;
Pleasant is the face to kiss,
Meant for beauty and for bliss,
If there were no broken law,
Sound of hidden snakes that hiss,
Snakes that under dazzling blossoms gnaw,
And their dupe to steps that crumble draw,
On the edge of the abyss.
Just a little touch like this,
That a mortal eye might miss,
As it overlooks a straw—
Sweeter form none ever saw;
Pleasant is the face to kiss,
Meant for beauty and for bliss,
If there were no broken law,
Sound of hidden snakes that hiss,
Snakes that under dazzling blossoms gnaw,
And their dupe to steps that crumble draw,
On the edge of the abyss.
Perfect, but for such a stain
Which our love would hardly spy,
Like a speck in purple sky,
Which may simply bode the rain,
Simply bring a golden gain
Unto meadows dim and dry;
As the early birds that fly
To the sunshine, she might strain
Eager wings, and utter cry
Free from pulse of weakness or of pain,
But for blight that makes the struggle vain,
Keeps her in the human sty.
Which our love would hardly spy,
Like a speck in purple sky,
Which may simply bode the rain,
Simply bring a golden gain
Unto meadows dim and dry;
As the early birds that fly
To the sunshine, she might strain
Eager wings, and utter cry
Free from pulse of weakness or of pain,
But for blight that makes the struggle vain,
Keeps her in the human sty.
All but perfect she, and still
All imperfect, became crost
With the cruel blasting frost,
Which must soul and body kill,
With its piercing, spreading ill;
Though she seems so gaily glost,
Not beyond redemption's cost,
Yet the greedy swine, that swill
Dregs into the gutter tost,
Higher forms and office fill,
Than the woman shorn of will—
All but whole, and wholly lost.
All imperfect, became crost
With the cruel blasting frost,
Which must soul and body kill,
With its piercing, spreading ill;
Though she seems so gaily glost,
Not beyond redemption's cost,
Yet the greedy swine, that swill
Dregs into the gutter tost,
Higher forms and office fill,
Than the woman shorn of will—
All but whole, and wholly lost.
| Women must weep | |