WOMAN'S PORTION

I The leaves are shivering on the thorn, Drearily; And sighing wakes the sad-eyed morn, Wearily. I press my thin face to the pane, Drearily; But never will he come again. Wearily. The rain hath sicklied day with haze, Drearily; My tears run downward as I gaze, Wearily. The mist and morn spake unto me, Drearily:— "What is this thing God gives to thee, Wearily?" I said unto the morn and mist, Drearily:— "The babe unborn whom sin hath kissed, Wearily." The morn and mist spake unto me, Drearily:— "What is this thing which thou dost see, Wearily?" I said unto the mist and morn, Drearily:— "The shame of man and woman's scorn, Wearily." "He loved thee not," they made reply, Drearily.— I said, "Would God had let me die!" Wearily. II My hopes are as a closed-up book, Drearily, Upon whose clasp of love I look Wearily. All night the rain raved overhead, Drearily; All night I wept, awake in bed, Wearily. I heard the wind sweep wild and wide, Drearily; And turned upon my face and sighed Wearily. The wind and rain spake unto me, Drearily:— "What is this thing God takes from thee, Wearily?" I said unto the rain and wind, Drearily:— "The love, for which my body sinned, Wearily." The rain and wind spake unto me, Drearily:— "What are these things that burden thee, Wearily?" I said unto the wind and rain, Drearily:— "Past joys, and dreams whose ghosts remain, Wearily." "Thou lov'st him still," they made reply, Drearily.— I said, "Would God that I could die!" Wearily.