The Spell of the Yukon and Other Verses

The Harpy

        There was a woman, and she was wise; woefully wise was she;
        She was old, so old, yet her years all told were but a score and three;
        And she knew by heart, from finish to start, the Book of Iniquity.

   There is no hope for such as I on earth, nor yet in Heaven;
   Unloved I live, unloved I die, unpitied, unforgiven;
   A loathed jade, I ply my trade, unhallowed and unshriven.

   I paint my cheeks, for they are white, and cheeks of chalk men hate;
   Mine eyes with wine I make them shine, that man may seek and sate;
   With overhead a lamp of red I sit me down and wait

   Until they come, the nightly scum, with drunken eyes aflame;
   Your sweethearts, sons, ye scornful ones — 'tis I who know their shame.
   The gods, ye see, are brutes to me — and so I play my game.

   For life is not the thing we thought, and not the thing we plan;
   And Woman in a bitter world must do the best she can —
   Must yield the stroke, and bear the yoke, and serve the will of man;

   Must serve his need and ever feed the flame of his desire,
   Though be she loved for love alone, or be she loved for hire;
   For every man since life began is tainted with the mire.

   And though you know he love you so and set you on love's throne;
   Yet let your eyes but mock his sighs, and let your heart be stone,
   Lest you be left (as I was left) attainted and alone.

   From love's close kiss to hell's abyss is one sheer flight, I trow,
   And wedding ring and bridal bell are will-o'-wisps of woe,
   And 'tis not wise to love too well, and this all women know.

   Wherefore, the wolf-pack having gorged upon the lamb, their prey,
   With siren smile and serpent guile I make the wolf-pack pay —
   With velvet paws and flensing claws, a tigress roused to slay.

   One who in youth sought truest truth and found a devil's lies;
   A symbol of the sin of man, a human sacrifice.
   Yet shall I blame on man the shame?  Could it be otherwise?

   Was I not born to walk in scorn where others walk in pride?
   The Maker marred, and, evil-starred, I drift upon His tide;
   And He alone shall judge His own, so I His judgment bide.

        Fate has written a tragedy; its name is "The Human Heart".
        The Theatre is the House of Life, Woman the mummer's part;
        The Devil enters the prompter's box and the play is ready to start.