by Anne Whitney
Go wear your tortured smile; speak and say nought;
Be laughed at by your diamonds -- I prefer
My light, loose garb -- freedom of face and thought,
And this uncompromising thunderer.
What do I where you mince and compliment,
And meet to hide the better, and deny
The deeper life within you? -- I was sent
To live at least in simple verity.
For your poor, famished lives of ostentation,
What victims bleed of which you never reeked!
The yearning heart of love -- the aspiration
Which makes us royal, the sweet self-respect.
But ah! I know the lonely hour will find you
Sincere once more; to-night doth sadness wait
To fold you in her purple, and remind you
Of your dead strength, your regal, lost estate.
346 & 348 Broadway
D. Appleton & Company