Poetry Archives

Yea, she hath looked Truth grimly face to face,
  And drained unto the lees the proffered cup.
This silence is not patience, nor the grace
  Of recognition, meekly offered up,
But mere acceptance fraught with keenest pain,
Seeing that all her struggles must be vain.

Her future clear and terrible outlies,—
  This burden to be borne through all her days,
This crown of thorns pressed down above her eyes,
  This weight of trouble she may never raise.
No reconcilement doth she ask nor wait;
Knowing such things are, she endures her fate.

No brave endeavor of the broken will
  To cling to such poor stays as will abide
(Although the waves be wild and angry still)
  After the lapsing of the swollen tide.
No fear of further loss, no hope of gain,
Naught but the apathy of weary pain.