The Mother’s Tragedy

88 THE WHORE IN HEAVEN Hate, triumph, justice, with their hardness strove Pity, pure pity; and, I think, the love Of some God’s angel. Now the strife is past; She took her father home with her at last. Now, in that moment, quite a miracle! Through all the shell of miserable sin, Through all the blackness of the gulf of Hell, She sees Truth’s angel. She is locked within No irrefragable bars; her spirit woke From its dull slavery; her passion broke Her history’s prison, from that hour to endure Mighty as tempest and as spring wind pure. After a year her changed life met its fate. There came a man and loved her, and her soul The first time knew true sympathy. Elate, That pure joy filled her body’s broken bow! With infinite fresh fire and purer wine; Her whole life grew one exquisite divine Flower of the sunlight; memory alone Held its stern sceptre on a cruel throne. She simply fled and would not see his face. A noble folly! In the countryside Where her harsh youth was nurtured, in the place Where she revolted, she lay down and died. With crossed hands folded on her budded breast She closed her eyes, and slept the sweet long rest Where the true peace of purity is drawn. She lay there dead; her spirit sought the dawn.