Page:Dreams and Images.djvu/152

 CHARITY

Unarmed she goeth, yet her hands Strike deeper awe than steel-caparisoned bands, No fatal hurt of foe she fears,— Veiled, as with mail, in mist of gentle tears.

'Gainst her thou canst not bar the door; Like air she enters; where none dared before. Even to the rich she can forgive Their regal selfishness,—and let them live!

A SONG BEFORE GRIEF

Sorrow, my friend, When shall you come again? The wind is slow, and the bent willows send Their silvery motions wearily down the plain: The bird is dead That sang this morning through the summer rain!

Sorrow, my friend, I owe my soul to you. And if my life with any glory end Of tenderness for others, and the words are true, Said, honoring, when I'm dead,— Sorrow, to you, the mellow praise, the funeral wreath, are due.