Classic Poem

Not alway will the heart of woman suffer anguish
And her soul's sweetest flowers droop down, decay and languish,
For man's heart will arise
And slay, with sword of love, lust the malign slave-master
And self, whose worship brings disaster on disaster:
Man shall restore the queenhood to her eyes.

Not alway can the soul of woman be degraded
In this our world,—the world whose dells have been invaded
By the rich virgin rose;
The world where Dante dreamed, the world where Hugo, later,
Took up his chant of love,—the world where Christ, yet greater,
Wept God's own tears, even then, for woman's woes.

Two thousand years have passed, well nigh,—yet woman weepeth.
Not yet the golden star of her redemption leapeth
Above the ill-omened shade.
Christ saved from plunging deep in black pollution's river
The women-souls he loved.—Could even Christ deliver
The souls our cities day by day degrade?

Hardly, it sometimes seems.—And yet the light is stronger
Than all the darkest dark, and love can hold out longer
Than hate, the devil's own creed.
We need the love of Christ, we need the wrath of Dante
(For where the wrath is slight, the noble love is scanty)
And Hugo's harp, to raise the dead indeed.