One room is full of luxury, and dim
With that soft moonlit radiance of light
That she best loves, who sits and dreams of him
Her heart has crowned as knight.
And one is bare, and comfortless, and dim
With that strange, fitful glimmer that is shed
By candles casting shadows weird and grim,
Above the sheeted dead.
In one, a round and beautiful young face
Is full of wordless rapture; and so fair
You know her breast is joy's best dwelling-place;
You know sweet love is there.
In one, there lies a white and wasted face
Whereon is frozen such supreme despair,
You need but look to know what left the trace;
You know love has been there.
To one he comes! She leans her head of gold
Upon his breast and bids him no more roam.
Ah God! Ah God! and one lies stark and cold,
Because he ceased to come.
Yesterdays. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
London: Gay & Hancock, 1916.
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