The Sting of Life.
Sorrow lies about us, crouching like a leopard fierce,
Ready, when we think it least our careless guard to pierce.
Our homes are built of human hearts, grief’s hand is on the latch,
Creep closer, lest that robber bold our happiness should snatch.
Death is woven with our being, and can never fright the soul
That accepts this phase of being as a fragment of the whole.
And as day to day evolveth, and we weave our destiny,
The divinity within us calls unto the god to be.
Death, amid a thousand phantoms, stands invulnerably true,
’Tis humanity’s sole birthright, it belongs to me, to you.
Death we know, and we accept it, but, O! God! to see the lips
Of a face we love grow pallid in pain’s terrible eclipse,
And the eye that was our beacon flinching like a hunted thing,
And a lovely mind in chaos — here, O! life — here is thy sting.
Agnes L. Storrie. Poems, J. W. Kettlewell, Sydney, 1909, pages 221-222