He never knew the golden thrall of youth,

The ringing step, the rumpled wind-tossed hair,

The reckless laugh untouched of pain or ruth,—

Youth without pity and without a care.

Not his the swift lithe strength that ever slays,

And in its joyous slaying doubly sweet,

Like some young god adown immortal ways,

Crushing the blossoms ’neath unheeding feet.

A twisted back, a face year-scarred and grim,

A very mockery to love’s caress,

These were the only birthright given him,—

What should he know, except of ugliness?

But in his fettered heart in longing pent

A wealth of tenderness and, stranger too,

Youth full of pity,—ah, the wonderment,—

He never knew, and yet how well he knew!