By Ella Wheeler Wilcox
I know two women, and one is chaste
And cold as the snows on a winter waste.
Stainless ever in act and thought
(As a man, born dumb, in speech errs not.)
But she has malice toward her kind,
A cruel tongue and a jealous mind.
Void of pity and full of greed,
She judges the world by her narrow creed:
A brewer of quarrels, a breeder of hate,
Yet she holds the key to “Society’s” Gate.
The other woman, with heart of flame,
Went mad for a love that marred her name:
And out of the grave of her murdered faith
She rose like a soul that has passed through death.
Her aims are noble, her pity so broad,
It covers the world like the mercy of God.
A soother of discord, a healer of woes,
Peace follows her footsteps wherever she goes
The worthier life of the two no doubt,
And yet “Society” locks her out.