SONNETS

Clearly, and iterant as a swinging bell,

I heard across the surges of the Strand

A woman's voice, and saw a woman's hand

With “Votes for Women.” A sudden vision fell

Across my path, and made my pulses swell

With agony of joy: I seemed to stand

At some far hill, from whence was faintly fanned

A whisper, “He descended into Hell.”

Sister! with foot in gutter, foot on kerb,

Tasting humiliations's bitter herb

In thy great calm of self laid wholly down!

Thine are the thorns of Christly souls who bend

To lift the world; and thou too shalt ascend

To thine own Heaven and everlasting crown!