Friends I have none, for I went the road Where women must harvest what men have sowed And they never come back when the field is mowed. They gave the lee of the cup to me But I was blind and would not see-- Now I'm old. _Where are your lovers, Sister,_ _Where are your lovers now?_ My lovers were many but all have run I betrayed and deceived them every one And they lived to learn what I had done. A poisoned draught from my lips they quaffed And I who knew it was poisoned, laughed-- Now I'm old. _Will they not help you, Sister,_ _In the name of your common sin?_ There is no debt, for my lovers bought. They paid my price for the things I brought. I made the terms so they owe me naught. I have no hold for 't was I who sold. One offered his heart, but mine was cold-- Now I'm old. _Where is that lover, Sister?_ _He will come when he knows your need._ I broke his hope and I stained his pride. I dragged him down in the undertide. Alone and forsaken by me he died. The blood that he shed is on my head For all the while I knew that he bled-- Now I'm old. _Is there no mercy, Sister,_ _For the wanton whose course is spent?_ When a woman is lovely the world will fawn. But not when her beauty and grace are gone, When her face is seamed and her limbs are drawn. I've had my day and I've had my play. In my winter of loneliness I must pay-- Now I'm old. _What of the morrow, Sister?_ _How shall the morrow be?_ I must feed to the end upon remorse. I must falter alone in my self-made course. I must stagger alone with my self-made cross. For I bartered my graces for silks and laces My heart I sold for a pot of gold-- Now I'm old. THE RED ROSE. By A. A. P. A white-faced wreck upon the bed she lay, And reaped the whirlwind of her yesterday. Before her rose the record of the past, And sin's dark wages all were due at last. A gentle messenger of God was there, Who kissed her brow and smoothed her tangled hair; And, in the tend'rest accents, told of One Who died for her--God's well-beloved Son. "No power could ransom such as me," she cried, "No cleansing stream my crimson sins could hide; For souls like yours there may be pardon free; The Son of God would never stoop to me." "I bring a gift of love," the listener said, "This dewy rose of richest, deepest red. Will you not take it? Have you not the power?" The trembling fingers reached and grasped the flower. "My sister," said the giver, "Just as I Held out to you that rose of scarlet dye, God offers you salvation from above, Through Jesus' precious blood--His gift of love.