Classic Poem

Beauty, the fickleness of woman, her hands pale
That often work for good, with every power for ill;
And in her docile eyes the brute lurks only still
Enough to say, enough! and quell the fearful male.

And ah! low lullaby to lull the guttural wail
Of pain, e'en where it lies — her voice! Its morning trill
Of wakening, sweet chant at eve; signal shrill
Or passionate sob; its music tremulous and frail!

Ferocious men! atrocious selfish ugly life!
Ah! of your charity, far from your lust and strife
Let somewhat still endure, be pure, upon the height.

Somewhat of gentleness, somewhat of childlike mind,
Goodness, respect, for who goes with us through the night
Of death? When we set forth, we leave all else behind.