PENITENT by CHRISTINE TURNER CURTIS

Though she be flint and jasper in the day
Now she is melted;
Here as she droops within your door
In satin belted;
With moonlight slippers on the floor
Her small feet felted.

Now crumbling all that proud young icy heart,
Tortured and turning;
Lost in a sigh that crystal voice
Keen-edged for spurning;
That faltering uneasy breast
In embers burning.

Pity her then, nor smile that secret smile
Of subtle scorning;
Your easy love knows not her Calvary
Of passionate thorning.
There shall yet midnight gloom your sky
When hers is morning.

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