Page:The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter.djvu/201

182 I can easily shut life's gates, but God alone holds the key; And all the darkness of night cannot shelter me. For my friend, you understand, my friend is dead, So people will pity the tears that my hot eyes shed. No voice to cry ‘Guilty,’ not seeing my brain's red shame— Not knowing that ‘Dead’ in my heart, hath another name. He wondered the world should plot him such mischief and pain; Knew not that his world was worked from one jealous man's brain, Whose hands set in motion the wheels, laid his heart on the rack, Followed ever with murmurs of doubt on his fortunate track, Till the world, more eager to listen to evil than good, Caught my whispers to hurl them back on the man as he stood. Crept scandal, with listening ears, to his keyhole, supplied Quick rumour with news for the keen appetites so denied; And hungry excitement kept hard on his quicksilver feet. Till men, self-comparing, and finding comparing were sweet. Would say, ‘Look at this man,’—meaning, look what a contrast there be— Or, ‘So has he sinned, see to him (so your gaze avoid me).’ Foolish world, as if men were not judged by each different mind. By God's justice, not that of the world's great classing of kind: ‘This is right, that is wrong,’ as though minds were all made on one plan, Leaving nought to inheritance, will-power, or surroundings of man.