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Ella Wheeler Wilcox - One Woman`s Memory
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Here is a lock of his soft, dark hair,
And here are the letters he wrote to me.
And the ring of gold that I used to wear
Is here in the casket—see!
I put them away ten years ago.
"What is it," you ask, "did I love in vain?
Was my lover unfaithful?" No, oh! no.
My heart was spared that pain.


He died in the bloom of his manhood`s youth.
You say I have his memory, friend;
That he is not dead, but lives, in truth;
Wait till you hear the end.
Death in itself is a little thing,
It is only passing from here to there;
But a death of shame has a bitter sting
That makes it hard to bear.


He was good and true as a man could be,
Noble and pure, when I loved him first;
But all of his race were cursed, you see,
With a fiery, craving thirst.
And the tempter, morning and noon and night,
Was placed in his path by a mother`s hand.
The woe of wine, and its blasting blight,
She did not understand.


I did not know, or I did not think,
Of the awful shame that was hidden there
When I saw him lift the glass, and drink
To the health of his "lady fair."
I knew and I thought when it was too late.
I reached out my hands, but I could not save.
He hurried on to his fearful fate,
And sank in a drunkard`s grave.


He was good, and kind, and true, but weak
When the ruby wine danced o`er the brim.
And woe is me that I did not speak
One warning word to him!
If I had but told him to cast away,
To touch not and taste not the mocker, wine,
I need not have felt as I feel to-day
That blood stains these hands of mine.


O ye who have friends on the awful brink
That hangs o`er the river of ruin and death!
When you see them lift the glass, oh! think
Of the jaggèd rocks beneath.
Reach out a hand ere the deed is done.
Send forth a cry in the dear Lord`s name.
Oh! stand not aloof while a precious one
Speeds down to a grave of shame.
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