Women must weep :: :: University of Virginia Library

Lo! her light was dim, and her pathway dreary,
And her shelter but the street,
And each day that dawn'd was yet more weary,
For the tired and trembling feet;
And she saw how idlers gain'd the guerdon,
How the sinful throve if strong,
While her back sank lower with the burden
She had carried lone and long;
But a better voice kept calling—calling—
Though the world might her despise,
Which had seen her daily falling, falling,—
“I will arise.”

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It was simply an old familiar story,
Just the tale of a woman's love,
Who had fancied death's was the gate of glory,
To be dropt like a worn-out glove:
It was simply a heart betray'd and broken,
That went out in its virgin joy,
With its innocent sufferings all unspoken,
Like a shamed and shatter'd toy:
Only one more woman, trusting, trusting,
Who awoke with a dread surprise,
And answer'd the tempter lusting, lusting,
“I will arise.”

She had not a friend to bestow a haven,
Not a penny within her purse.
She was turn'd adrift by the cruel craven,
Who bequeathed her but his curse;
Like a paper-boat on the foaming billow,
She was left to swim or drown,
Without hope of even the poorest pillow,
In the ocean of the Town;
And the ladies closer drew their dresses,
If she met their modest eyes,
As she sighed to Him who sorrow blesses,
“I will arise.”

But the Pharisee lounged to his good dinner,
And he drank his costly wine,
And that he was not yet proved a sinner,
He rejoiced in grace Divine;
He rejoiced that Providence look'd kindly
On the title and the till,
And the maidens yet were trapp'd so blindly.
Who would sate his wicked will;
While his prey in sadness, slower, slower,
Walk'd beneath the veilèd skies,
And just sobb'd with head still lower, lower,
“I will arise.”