At the Play
The poet painted a woman’s soul,
Human, trusting and kind,
And then he drew the soul of a man,
Brutal and base and blind;
And the woman loved in the old, old way,
And the man in the way of men,
And the poet christened their lives “A Play,”
And he sat down to watch it, and then...
A woman rose with a bitter laugh,
And her eyes were as dry as stone
As she bowed her head at the poet’s stall
And said in a strange, cold tone:
“He paints the best who has dipped his brush
In the heart’s own blood, they say;
You took my love and you took my life,
But you gave the world—a play!”