The Galled Jade
To shroud what nights have done to days,
This braggart's cry (that screens despair)
That I am author of my ways;
My glittering words to mask defeat
That I am cheek-by-jowl with God
And manage him with methods neat
Go by with most among whom I plod.
But when I meet you, silent one,
Your unequivocating eye,
Your patience veiling something close
To God's pity, I defy,
Of my brave clothing I'm bereft.
My great word's intended tones
Stutter . . . my soul stands bare . . . I am left
Small, chill, vague, alone.
__Margaret E. Haughawout.
Margaret E. Haughawout
(Pittsburg, Kansas: __. 1929)