I went before God, and he said,
“What fruit of the life I gave?”
“Father,” I said, “it is dead,
And nothing grows on the grave.”
Wroth was the Lord and stern:
“Hadst thou not to answer me?
Shall the fruitless root not burn,
And be wasted utterly?”
“Father,” I said, “forgive!
For thou knowest what I have done;
That another’s life might live
Mine turned to a barren stone.”
But the Father of Life sent fire
And burned the root in the grave;
And the pain in my heart is dire
For the thing that I could not save.
For the thing it was laid on me
By the Lord of Life to bring;
Fruit of the ungrown tree
That died for no watering.
Another has gone to God,
And his fruit has pleased Him well;
For he sitteth high, while I—plod
The dry ways down towards hell.
Though thou knowest, thou knowest, Lord,
Whose tears made that fruit’s root wet;
Yet thou drivest me forth with a sword,
And thy Guards by the Gate are set.
Thou wilt give me up to the fire,
And none shall deliver me;
For I followed my heart’s desire,
And I labored not for thee:
I labored for him thou hast set
On thy right hand, high and fair;
Thou lovest him, Lord; and yet
’Twas my love won Him there.
But this is the thing that hath been,
Hath been since the world began—
That love against self must sin,
And a woman die for a man.
And this is the thing that shall be,
Shall be till the whole world die,
Kismet :—My doom is on me!
Why murmur since I am I?
Philadelphia, August, 1898 .