BOOK X

Miscellaneous

MISCELLANEOUS

In Passing

By Ruth

(Contemporary Poet.)

Too long have I listened to the voices of men;
They said they would teach me wisdom-

And I am not wise:

And now when I listen for the voice of God-
I cannot hear it.

A Contrast

By Laura Simmons

Across the gloom a shadow flits; I glimpse a sodden

face

Wherein the years of sin and care, and toil have left their trace.

A wanton laugh;-I mark no more, for yonder in the

glow

One waiteth me-my love! my star! with welcoming, I know.

Tender and fine is she, withal so stately sweet and

fair

My grateful heart thrills thanks to heaven to see her standing there.

If this be woman, pure, benign-man's blessed beacon lightThen-Christ!

What that poor outcast soul that

passed me in the night?

Mary and Magdalene

By Virginia Cleaver Beacon

(In The Coming Nation."')

Little sister of the street,

Do not hurry by!

There's a problem we must meet
Together, you and I.

While your head with shame is bowed,
While you shun the day,

Right forbids that I be proud,

Who might have gone your way.

Did you find the road too hard,
Feet untaught must tread?
Was the honest pathway barred,—
To this the other led?

In a world where all is sold
You have sold yourself;

Poor the price the world has doled,
You win not even pelf.

Little sister of the street,

This old wrong must cease!

You and I as women meet

To give the world release.

Dare We Judge?

By Paulina Brandreth

(In The Survey.'')

What do we know of life,

We, who are housed and fed,

What do we know of strife
Who are so gently led?

Have we dwelt in the slime
Of Poverty's abode

Have we walked with the crime
Engendered by its load?

Oh, have we ever known
Days of eternal care?
When Hope is turned to stone
And broken by Despair?

Or have we ever raced

And won, and lost again? And then with failure faced The cruelty of men?

We have not lived these things,

Our bread and wine is sweet; We do not know what causes bring The woman to the street.

Yet, she who wounds her soul

Is better far than we,
Who do our lives control
In self-complacency.

Aye, better far than we,
Who ignorantly dwell,
Lulled with tranquility
Above the wreck of hell.