She makes no moan above her faded flowers,
She will not vainly strive against her lot,
Patient she wears away the slow, sad hours,
As if the ray they had were quite forgot;
While stronger fingers snatch away the sword,
And lighter footsteps pass her on the ways,
Yielding submissive to the stern award
That said, she must go softly all her days.
She knows the pulse is beating quickly yet,
She knows the dream is sweet and subtle still,
That struggling from the cloud of past regret,
Ready for conflict live Hope, Joy, and Will
So soon, so soon to veil the eager eyes,
To dull the throbbing ear to blame or praise,
So soon to crush rewakening sympathies,
And teach them she goes softly all her days.
She will not speak or move beneath the doom,
She knows she had her day, and flung her cast,
The loser scarce the laurel may assume,
Nor evening think the noonday glow can last.
Only, oh youth and love, as in your pride,
Of joyous triumph your gay notes you raise,
Throw one kind glance and word where, at your side,
She creeps, who must go softly all her days.
