Julia Evelyn Ditto Young

“ Looms large as the fate of an empire doth to a fetterless king,
And for the first time in aeons Kyrle felt a surcease of pain,
Casting the slough of his anguish a blessed brief hour or twain,—
’Twas something to hope and to live for, that hour in the afternoon,
To question if fate would vouchsafe him a second such velvety boon,—
He would not fail to keep tryst,—not he! And yet—O heaven!—and yet—
What? had he sunk to this estate? to care if some selfish coquette,
A pampered doll, an idol of clay, born only to drive men mad,
Yielded or not to such sweet ruth as yesterday she had? ”

“ So it seemed to Kyrle, with his strong hand lax and sluggish his galloping blood,
And over and over he cursed his fate and bitterly marvelled to find
What a wretched contemptible thing is a man, whether death-dumb and resigned,
Ox-like patient, stolidly mute, he draggeth his weariful load,
Or furious snarls at the bloody lash and passion ate writhes at the goad,—
Bah! the unstable frail spirit, more weak than the wing of a dove
To soar and attain the empyreal heights,—strong only to suffer and love! ”

“ When the pendulum pulse in the soft young cheek swings tremulous to and fro
From the pearly pallor of cherry blooms to the rose’s crimson glow,
When a few faint syllables, English-plain, are richer than wisdom’s years,
And one dear voice holds deeper tones than the music of all the spheres. ”