Cross Roads

A BOWERY PAWN-SHOP

     A dusty, musty little shop set in a dingy street,
     A doorsill old and scarred and worn by many tired
           feet,
     A row of cases, vaguely glassed, a safe against the
           wall,
     And, oh, the ache of many hearts—the fabric of it
           all!

     A violin with broken strings that fingers have
           caressed,
     A diamond-set betrothal ring that lover's lips have
           pressed,
     A high shell comb, a spangled fan, a filmy bit of lace,
     A heart-shaped locket, ribbon-tied, that frames a
           laughing face.

     A pair of blankets folded up, an overcoat, a shawl,
     A tall old clock that might have chimed in some
           wainscoted hall,
     And in the farthest corner, where the purple shadows
           lie,
     The echo of a woman's sob, the phantom of a sigh.

     Ah, wedding-rings—a score of them—not many of
           them new,
     A grim revolver laid beside a baby's tiny shoe,
     A satin coat, a ragged gown, a gold-clasped book of
           verse,
     A necklace of bedraggled pearls, an empty silver
           purse.

     A dreary weary little shop set in a sunless place.
     A little shop where love has met with sorrow and
           disgrace....
     A row of cases, double-locked, a safe against the wall;
     And, oh, the ache of countless hearts that lies
           behind it all!