Love's Protest

Who has not felt a shuddering recoil upon discovering that the heart of a rare, sweet rose has become the banquet hall of a loathsome worm,—that into its perfumed chambers has come this hideously stupid creature, bent solely upon the satisfaction of a grossness that with consuming leisure enters the matchless halls of a palace of purity, and leaves them reeking with foulness and decay. The pitiful helplessness of the exquisite blossom thus invaded, and the blind indifference to everything save its maw which marks the gorging beast, impel one to visit swift vengeance upon the intruder and to turn away with mingled disgust and sorrow of heart.

The incongruity of such a fact, its assault upon every sense of fitness and of right, provokes instant and abiding protest, and one pronounces anathema upon the situation with a kind of despairing gusto. It is all so outrageously wrong,—he knows that; and yet he knows he has but touched a fact which is coextensive with physical nature, and as seemingly ineradicable as instinct. What can a man do to right these things that make his heart ache every hour of the day? The query is deep, and for the many quite unanswerable, and yet all know that the wrong has no right to be, and that in God's kingdom, in that ideal which at their best all recognize, it cannot be.

"Well done"
May 22, 1915

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