Poems (Victor)/To Mrs. —

by Frances Fuller Victor

For other versions of this work, see To Mrs. —.

TO MRS. ——

I have not found the meaning out

That lies in wrong, and pain and strife;

I know not why we grope through grief,

Tear-blind, to touch the higher life.

In my unconscious viens there runs,

Perchance, some old ancestral taint;

In Eve I sinned. Poor Eve and I!

We each may utter one complaint—

One and the same—for knowledge came

Too late to save her paradise;

And I my paradise have lost

Forsooth because I am not wise.

O, vain traditions, small the aid

We women gather from your lore;

Why, when the world was lost, did death

Not come our children's birth before?

It had been better to have died

Sole prey of death, and ended so,

Than to have dragged through endless time

One long, unbroken trail of woe.

To suffer, yet not expiate;

To die at last yet not atone;

To mourn our heirship to a guilt

Erased by innocent blood alone!

You lift your hands in shocked surprise,

You say enough I have not prayed;

Can prayer go back through centuries

And change the web of fate one braid?

Nay, own the truth, and say that we

Are but the bonded slaves of doom.

Unconscious to the cradle came,

Unwilling must go to the tomb.

I wait to find the meaning out

That lies beyond the bitter end;

Comfort yourself with wearying heaven,

I find no comfort, O my friend.