  The dogs were whining; they sensed too well The load upon the sled; The rough-hewn box with the light-o'-love— A girl, 'twas said. A week ago, at the Palace Bar, She sang the songs of France; But many a heart is lead the while The feet must dance. Kisses she gave and kisses she took, Sinned for her daily bread; But all we knew as we eyed the box Was: she was dead. We placed upon it (How much it hurt Only the good God knows!) A gaud she had worn in her dusky hair— A paper rose. A crumpled thing that seemed beautiful To lonely, broken men, Hinting of fairer flowers and things Beyond our ken. We thought of her as we closed her door As somebody's little child; As somebody's darling, lost, long lost, But undefiled. The grey above us, the white beneath; Chill silence everywhere; Yet deep in our hearts we knew that God Was also there. We knew, far better than others know Whose ways are bright and glad, His judgments are very merciful On good and bad. Our little sister was now at peace. The snow began to fall. The flakes soon hid that gift of ours Beneath their pall. Under the white, white flakes the rose, Crumpled, tawdry and red; Hinting the pity which all men need When they are dead. The dogs still whined as they dragged the sled To where the spruces dream; And there we left her, a wayward child, At rest in Him. |
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