Yes, stone the woman, let the man go free! Draw back your skirts, lest they perchance may touch Her garment as she passes; but to him Put forth a willing hand to clasp with his That led her to destruction and disgrace. Shut up from her the sacred ways of toil, That she no more may win an honest meal; But ope to him all honorable paths Where he may win distinction; give to him Fair, pressed-down measures of life's sweetest joys. Pass her, O maiden, with a pure, proud face, If she puts out a poor, polluted palm; But lay thy hand in his on bridal day, And swear to cling to him with wifely love And tender reverence. Trust him who led A sister woman to a fearful fate. Yes, stone the woman, let the man go free! Let one soul suffer for the guilt of two-- It is the doctrine of a hurried world, Too out of breath for holding balances Where nice distinctions and injustices Are calmly weighed. But ah, how will it be On that strange day of fire and flame, When men shall wither with a mystic fear, And all shall stand before the one true Judge? Shall sex make _then_ a difference in sin? Shall He, the Searcher of the hidden heart, In His eternal and divine decree Condemn the woman and forgive the man? ANONYMOUS. * * * * * IN PRISON. God pity the wretched prisoners, In their lonely cells to-day! Whatever the sins that tripped them, God pity them! still I say. Only a strip of sunshine, Cleft by rusty bars; Only a patch of azure, Only a cluster of stars; Only a barren future, To starve their hope upon; Only stinging memories Of a past that's better gone; Only scorn from women. Only hate from men, Only remorse to whisper Of a life that might have been. Once they were little children. And perhaps their unstained feet Were led by a gentle mother Toward the golden street; Therefore, if in life's forest They since have lost their way, For the sake of her who loved them, God pity them! still I say. O mothers gone to heaven! With earnest heart I ask That your eyes may not look earthward On the failure of your task. For even in those mansions The choking tears would rise, Though the fairest hand in heaven Would wipe them from your eyes! And you, who judge so harshly, Are you sure the stumbling-stone That tripped the feet of others Might not have bruised your own? Are you sure the sad-faced angel Who writes our errors down Will ascribe to you more honor Than him on whom you frown? Or, if a steadier purpose Unto your life is given; A stronger will to conquer, A smoother path to heaven; If, when temptations meet you, You crush them with a smile; If you can chain pale passion And keep your lips from guile;