CHANCE.
205
A WOMAN'S DEATH-WOUND.
T left upon her tender flesh no trace.The murderer is safe. As swift as light
The weapon fell, and, in the summer night,
Did scarce the silent, dewy air displace;
'T was but a word. A blow had been less base.
Like dumb beast branded by an iron white
With heat, she turned in blind and helpless flight,
But then remembered, and with piteous face
Came back.
Since then, the world has nothing missed
In her, in voice or smile. But she—each day
She counts until her dying be complete.
One moan she makes, and ever doth repeat:
"O lips that I have loved and kissed and kissed,
Did I deserve to die this bitterest way?"
CHANCE.
HESE things I wondering saw beneath the sun:That never yet the race was to the swift,
The fight unto the mightiest to lift,
Nor favors unto men whose skill had done
Great works, nor riches ever unto one
Wise man of understanding. All is drift
Of time and chance, and none may stay or sift
