Poem January 11, 1900 Issue

The Lash

Martha Gilbert Dickinson

'Tis not the sunshine or the blessedness of life,
Nor love, the healer of despair,
Nor laurels torn from sullen fields of strife,
Nor nightfall's certitude of care—
I most thank God for; 'tis the lash!
That cuts my face
To one swift surging consciousness,
That I all but betrayed a royal place
And pawned my soul for fate's caress.

Martha Gilbert Dickinson.

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Among the Churches
January 11, 1900
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