Only a Story
By Harriet Annie Wilkins
Let me tell you a story, dear,
Of someone I saw to-day,
Only a man with a pale worn face,
And auburn locks grown gray,
One, I thought would never again,
Come over my pathway here,
One, I still hope to meet forgiven,
In a better brighter sphere.
Why did you start, he knew me, yes,
A flush as of pain, or pride,
Pass'd swiftly o'er the pale stern face,
And the high white forehead dyed,
I heard the roll of carriage wheels,
Unthinkingly raised my eyes,
One glance flashed out beneatt thosee Brows,
Like lightening across the skies.
Shudder not dear, 'tis he who grieves,
Not I in my lonely life,
I have a calm bright future now,
He? well, he has gold and strife,
They say that oft by the heaving lake,
He wanders about alone,
Waves that dash on the sandy beach,
Answer his throbbing heart's moan.
Once or twice has been heard a name
As if wrung with torturous pain,
From lips to sacred silence sworn,
Told only to storms and rain.
He leaves the light of gilded halls,
To clasp in the midnight air,
Some flowers that faded years ago,
One lock of a girl's dark hair.
Ask me not with those pleading eyes,
If I dream about him yet;
Is anything colder to your touch,
Than ashes with rain-drops wet?
What is harder to kindle up,
Than lava grown black and cold,
That once from burning mountain's heart,
In fiery grandeur rolled.
Pity him, pray for him, that is well,
Married for jewels and gold,
Vipers crawl from the caskets bright,
And they keep his fingers cold.
Only a flush of pain or pride,
When to-day our glances met,
He in his gorgeous wealth arrayed,
I, out in the cold and wet.
Hush; as we sow we surely reap,
Yes, he has a wife and gold,
Broad lands, a mansion white and tall
Like an iceberg grand and cold,
I? I've the blessings of the poor,
Which fall like the gentle dew,
I've claims on mansions far away,
I have life, and love, and you.