Smote with the smell of pine;
It was too much to bear; she braved
Her gods and crossed the line.
And we were hurt to see her go,
With her fair face and hair,
And veins too thin and blue to show
What mingled blood flowed there.
We envied her a while, who still
Pursued the hated track ;
Then we forgot her name, until
One day her shade came back.
Calm as a wave without a crest,
Sorrow-proud and sorrow-wise,
With trouble sucking at her breast,
With tear-disdainful eyes,
She slipped into her ancient place,
And, no word asked, gave none;
Only the silence in her face
Said seats were dear in the sun.
Published in Color, 1925