 | 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition |  |
HELL.
Just the dim distorted will to follow
Ever, from the dawning to the dusk,
Ignorant the glittering gain is hollow,
Worthless as the fruit that yields but husk;
Never once to feel the glorious bridle
Laid by service on rejoicing strength,
Still to wander aimless on, in idle
Pastime, to the pall that drops at length;
Still to lack the moulding of affliction,
Chisel keen that cuts and quickens well,
Free from saving loss, kind contradiction—
This is hell.
Ever, from the dawning to the dusk,
Ignorant the glittering gain is hollow,
Worthless as the fruit that yields but husk;
Never once to feel the glorious bridle
Laid by service on rejoicing strength,
Still to wander aimless on, in idle
Pastime, to the pall that drops at length;
Still to lack the moulding of affliction,
Chisel keen that cuts and quickens well,
Free from saving loss, kind contradiction—
This is hell.
90
Just to tread the same old selfish journey
Day by day, to the same selfish end,
Broken not by fierce delight of tourney,
When brave spirits meet and may not bend;
Not to know the agony of fighting
For the true and beautiful, or seek
Bliss in others' bliss by others righting,
Wiping tears from the pale orphan's cheek;
Not to have the rapturous pain of rising,
Borne on purpose like the ocean swell,
Upward to the Cross, while death despising—
This is hell.
Day by day, to the same selfish end,
Broken not by fierce delight of tourney,
When brave spirits meet and may not bend;
Not to know the agony of fighting
For the true and beautiful, or seek
Bliss in others' bliss by others righting,
Wiping tears from the pale orphan's cheek;
Not to have the rapturous pain of rising,
Borne on purpose like the ocean swell,
Upward to the Cross, while death despising—
This is hell.
Just to live for folly, and untroubled
Yet to dance away the hours and jest,
Though the scourge with hateful lash redoubled
Falls upon the slaves who cannot rest;
Yet to frolic on the graves of better
Men, who gave the world a little more—
Dared to loose if but a captive's fetter,
Leave two blades of grass for one before;
Yet to pass untouched the ancient riddle,
Written new in dust and blossom's bell,
On the edge of solemn faiths to fiddle—
This is hell.
Yet to dance away the hours and jest,
Though the scourge with hateful lash redoubled
Falls upon the slaves who cannot rest;
Yet to frolic on the graves of better
Men, who gave the world a little more—
Dared to loose if but a captive's fetter,
Leave two blades of grass for one before;
Yet to pass untouched the ancient riddle,
Written new in dust and blossom's bell,
On the edge of solemn faiths to fiddle—
This is hell.
Just to flit, unchecked by noble serving,
On from flower to flower, in thoughtless haste,
Never for a petty moment swerving
Sweetly, to the founts that bitter taste;
Just to be a paltry peg for clothing,
Jewels, toys, and vanities, that shame
Our sublimer lot, and bring us nothing
But the knife of self-condemning blame;
Just to eat and drink, though thousands sorrow,
For to-day, and in the present dwell—
Glut one's way in all again to-morrow—
This is hell.
On from flower to flower, in thoughtless haste,
Never for a petty moment swerving
Sweetly, to the founts that bitter taste;
Just to be a paltry peg for clothing,
Jewels, toys, and vanities, that shame
Our sublimer lot, and bring us nothing
But the knife of self-condemning blame;
Just to eat and drink, though thousands sorrow,
For to-day, and in the present dwell—
Glut one's way in all again to-morrow—
This is hell.
| 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition | |