Poems (Henderson)/The Suicide

by Elizabeth Henderson

For works with similar titles, see The Suicide.

THE SUICIDE.

Weary of all worldly scorning,
 Weary of all earthly strife,
Ever yearning, ne'er receiving,
 What his heart most dearly prized.
Not the crust that human grudging,
 Doled to him in pity's name,
Nor where with his want supplying,
 Counted he as loss or gain.

'Twas some cankered chord of sorrow,
 In the heart, that longed to break,
'Twas the lack of human loving,
 Marked the white appealing face.
Close his eyes, and fold his hands,
 Gently on the quiet breast,
Some where in the world's confusion,
 Beats some heart that he loved best.

Some white hand that all unheeding,
 Dropped the poisoned arrow there,
In another's clasped, may closer,
 Linger in that other's care.
Her proud eyes that drew him onward,
 To the goal of love and faith,
May not look in careless scorning,
 On the handiwork of Death.

Ruby lips that once he kissed,
 Lips that trembled at his touch,
Wedded to another's, never,
 Long for him who loved her much.
What to him that hearts were breaking,
 In his pathway every day,
Human sorrow makes no weaker,
 Pangs that eat the heart away.

Hearts may break, and graves may gather,
 Suns will shine and flowers blow,
And the endless crowd keep surging,
 And swaying to and fro.
Fold his hands and have no crying,
 'Tis the living, not the dead,
That demand the tears and heart-aches,
 And the silent pangs of dread.

Done with all Life's bitter striving,
 Peaceful is his brow and calm,
Tired of the dreary waiting,
 For the healing balm of Time.
Let no scornful tongue upbraid him,
 For the way was very long,
Let the Heavenly Father judge him.
 He repaireth every wrong.