Classic Poem

O, THE wild, wild trouble in your eye,
Marghrita!
The sad, sad trouble that doth lie
Beyond the reaching
Of all preaching,
Marghrita.

Of the dark, dark days you spend,
Marghrita, —
The dreary, lonesome days that rend
You with their woe,
What do they know,
Marghrita,
Who stand amid the flowers of life,
Marghrita,
And have no knowledge of the strife
Which leaves its trace
Upon your face,
Marghrita?
No matter if the winds blow east or west,
Marghrita;
They have pleasant homes wherein to rest,
While you have none
Under the sun,