He never knew the golden thrall of youth,
The ringing step, the rumpled wind-tossed hair,
The reckless laugh untouched of pain or ruth,—
Youth without pity and without a care.
Not his the swift lithe strength that ever slays,
And in its joyous slaying doubly sweet,
Like some young god adown immortal ways,
Crushing the blossoms‘ neath unheeding feet.
A twisted back, a face year-scarred and grim,
A very mockery to love's caress,
These were the only birthright given him,—
What should he know, except of ugliness?
But in his fettered heart in longing pent
A wealth of tenderness and, stranger too,
Youth full of pity,— ah, the wonderment,—
He never knew, and yet how well he knew!