“TIRED OUT”

“tired out!” Yet face and brow

Do not look aweary now,

And the eyelids lie like two

Pure, white rose-leaves washed with dew.

Was her life so hard a task?—

Strange that we forget to ask

What the lips now dumb for aye

Could have told us yesterday!

“Tired out!” A faded scrawl

Pinned upon the ragged shawl —

Nothing else to leave a clue

Even of a friend or two,

Who might come to fold the hands,

Or smooth back the dripping strands

Of her tresses, or to wet

Them anew with fond regret.

“Tired out!” We can but guess

Of her little happiness —

Long ago, in some fair land,

When a lover held her hand

In the dream that frees us all,

Soon or later, from its thrall —

Be it either false or true,

We, at last, must tire, too.