Epigraph
His was the deepest sorrow, for it grew
Out from his crime, a night-shade of the soul.
There, fed on poison—bathed with bitter dew,
She found the evil thing. Her sweet control
Unearthed the root, and softly planted there
A tiny germ, all white and pure as snow,
And then with tears, and smiles, and silent prayer,
Through grief and darkness, watched the lone plant grow
A stately tree, rooted so deep in Love,
That its best fruitage must be found above.