A sliver slipped beneath the skin
Of one whose soul bore pain within;
This broken body, rent and torn,
Lay trembling on a dew-touched morn.
The hand of Conscience, beaten, red
Moved slowly down the wood and bled.
An angry heaven wept its light
As if to make the darkness right,
And purge the valley from its sin,
Its shame, its blood, its slaughtered kin.
Beneath the gentle, brushing trees,
A woman weeping, on her knees;
Sweet Reason dressed in mourner’s black
Shed tears and called her lover back:
“Awake. awake!” This man of sense
Was father to sweet Innocence–
Sweet Innocence with purest skin
And purer still a heart within.
But she was gone, and he lay dead
As Reason hung her graying head.
The something broke the revered hush,
And looking up into the brush
She saw Indulgence, clothed in Pride.
He did not run; he did not hide.
He only sheathed the bloody knife
That stole from Conscience precious life,
And smiled at the doing’s done;
Indulgence smiled, for he had won.
And there–embraced by nature’s floor–
The man of Conscience stood no more.
