Poems (Allen)/Lost

by Elizabeth Chase Allen

For works with similar titles, see Lost.

LOST.

HE word has come;—go forth
An outcast and a blot upon the earth;
Lo, the fierce angel, with his sword of flame,
  And brow of bitter blame,
Stands at the portal, and commands thee,—hark!
  "Go forth into the dark,
  The blind and pitiless dark,
      Perdita!"

  Go forth into the storm,
Wrap the rough sackcloth round thy delicate form,
  Since torn forever thence
Are the fair garments of thine innocence,
Which not by prayer, nor penance, nor much pain,
  Can be made white again,
      Perdita!

  Nay, it is vain to plead,—
There is no hand to help, no ear to heed,—
  Not even his, whose art
Did win and cast aside thy credulous heart,—
Who from thy forehead gathered ruthlessly
The luminous lilies of white Purity,
  And planted there instead
Shame's heavy blossoms, broad and scarlet-red,
      Perdita!

  Whom thou wouldst die to please;
Whom thou hast followed on thy bleeding knees
  Through wrong and woe and strife,
To kiss his footsteps in the dust of life,—
  Pleading with tears the while
For the great blessing of a word or smile,
  As starvelings plead for bread,
To those, who, taunting, fling a stone instead,—
      Perdita!

  Lift not thy pleading eyes
To the calm scorn of the unpitying skies,—
  Hide thy dishonored brow,—
Sweet Mercy's smile is not for such as thou,
      Perdita!