Classic Poem

Here — am I here?
Or is it fancy, born of fear?
Yes — O God, save me! — this is I,
And not some wretch of whom I've read,
In that bright girlhood, when the sky
Each night strewed star-dust o'er my head;
When each morn meant a gala-day,
And all my little world was gay.
I had not felt the touch of Care;
I'd heard of something called Despair,
But knew it only by its name.
(How far it seemed! — how soon it came!)
Yes, all the bright years hurried by;
Sorrow was near, and — this is I!

Is't the same girl that stood, one night,
There in the wide hall's thrilling light,
With all the costly robes astir
That love and pride had bought for her?
How the great crowd, 'mid their kind din,
Gazed with gaunt eyes and drank me in!
And then they hushed at each low word,
So Death himself might have been heard,
To hear me mournfully rehearse
The tender Hood's pathetic verse
About that woman who, half dead,
Stitched her frail life in every thread.
How little then I knew the need!
Yet for my own sex I did plead,
And my heart crept on each word's track
Till soft sobs from the crowd came back.
I saw my sister, streaming-eyed,
Yet bearing still a face of pride:
Oh, sister! when you looked at me
With that quick yearning glance of love,
Did you peer on, to what might be —
What is? — and is it known above?
When that great throng a shout did raise,
And gave me words of heart-felt praise,
And loving eyes their incense burned
Till my young girlish head was turned —
Did your clear eye see farther then
A moment past all mortal ken,
And in the dreary scene I drew
Did my own form appear to you?
It might have been; grief was o'er-nigh,
And — God, have pity! — this is I,
Treading a steep and dang'rous way,
And — earning twenty cents a day!