She who, wandering friendless and forlorn,
Sought far and near the child herself had borne,
Finding nor help nor comfort in another.
Over the weakness here so proven strength,
Bends down; and, lo! the room becomes a shrine
And hallowed altar for a love divine,—
Pure as her love for lost Persephone!
IN THE SURGICAL WARD
"He that loveth his life shall lose it."
Last night a shape of fear
Came in the silence drear—
Unlooked-for and unsought—
With stealthy, ghost-like motion drawing near.
I could not see its face
In the unlighted place;
No sound of it I caught;
But, shuddering, I felt its creeping pace
A thing too dread to bear.
I knew that it was there,
And, my warm blood grown cold,
An icy breathing horror stirred my hair.