May we not linger till the day is broad? Nay, none are stirring in this stinging dawn-- None but poor wretches that make no moan to God: What use are these, O thou with dagger drawn? "Go forth, go forth! Stand not to weep for these, Till, weakened with your weeping, like the snow Ye melt, dissolving in a coward peace!" Light upon Waldheim! Brother, let us go! =London=, October, 1897. LOVE'S COMPENSATION I went before God, and he said, "What fruit of the life I gave?" "Father," I said, "It is dead, And nothing grows on the grave." Wroth was the Lord and stern: "Hadst thou not to answer me? Shall the fruitless root not burn, And be wasted utterly?" "Father," I said, "forgive! For thou knowest what I have done; That another's life might live Mine turned to a barren stone." But the Father of Life sent fire And burned the root in the grave; And the pain in my heart is dire For the thing that I could not save. For the thing it was laid on me By the Lord of Life to bring; Fruit of the ungrown tree That died for no watering. Another has gone to God, And his fruit has pleased Him well; For he sitteth high, while I--plod The dry ways down towards hell. Though thou knowest, thou knowest, Lord, Whose tears made that fruit's root wet; Yet thou drivest me forth with a sword, And thy Guards by the Gate are set. Thou wilt give me up to the fire, And none shall deliver me; For I followed my heart's desire, And I labored not for thee: I labored for him thou hast set On thy right hand, high and fair; Thou lovest him, Lord; and yet 'Twas my love won Him there. But this is the thing that hath been, Hath been since the world began,-- That love against self must sin, And a woman die for a man. And this is the thing that shall be, Shall be till the whole world die, _Kismet_:--My doom is on me! Why murmur since I am I? =Philadelphia=, August, 1898. THE ROAD BUILDERS ("Who built the beautiful roads?" queried a friend of the present order, as we walked one day along the macadamised driveway of Fairmount Park.) I saw them toiling in the blistering sun, Their dull, dark faces leaning toward the stone, Their knotted fingers grasping the rude tools, Their rounded shoulders narrowing in their chest, The sweat drops dripping in great painful beads. I saw one fall, his forehead on the rock, The helpless hand still clutching at the spade, The slack mouth full of earth.