In The Chain Of My Life, There

There Is Such Wonderful Balm In Self-imposed Sacrifice.

A Surging, Seething, Murmuring Crowd Of Beings That Are Human Only In Name, For To The Eye And Ear They Seem Naught But Savage Creatures, Animated By Vile Passions And By The Lust Of Vengeance And Of Hate. The Hour, Some Little Time Before Sunset, And The Place, The West Barricade, At The Very Spot Where, A Decade Later, A Proud Tyrant Raised An Undying Monument To The Nation's Glory And His Own Vanity.

When They Are Gay, The Waves Echo Their Gaiety; But When They Are Sad, Then Every Breaker, As It Rolls, Seems To Bring Additional Sadness, And To Speak To Us Of Hopelessness And Of The Pettiness Of All Our Joys.

Your Mock Saint Who Stands In A Niche Is Not A Woman If She Have Not Suffered, Still Less A Woman If She Have Not Sinned. Fall At The Feet Of Your Idol As You Wish, But Drag Her Down To Your Level After That -- The Only Level She Should Ever Reach, That Of Your Heart.

She, Too, Had Worn A Mask In Assuming A Contempt For Him, Whilst, As A Matter Of Fact, She Completely Misunderstood Him