Page:Czecho-Slovak Student Life, Volume 18.djvu/85
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STUDENT LIFE
11
that he could only press her hand and say, “It’s all right, Janey.” Something choked him again.
Janey lay silent awhile, looking at him. Then her other hand wandered to her throat and, dropping her eyes, she said, “I’m sorry, Jim— — —”.
She knew that Jim would never have blamed her, but woman-like she wanted him to say it.
When he was silent she asked “Do you hate me so much?” But she knew what the answer would be.
Jim swallowed hard and burst out amazedly, “I, my God! I?”
She smiled, but something hurt her. She knew that though she had won the man she had lost the boy,—forever, for boys do not say “My God!”, at least not that way.
SOUL PANGS.
Fr. Ivan Kramoris
You cannot keep that conscience still with blotsUpon your soul; it haunts you in the night.It haunts you all the day; a thorn amongYour pleasures, yea! a grief amidst your woes;Distraction in your prayer it is, for howCan God be pleased with you, when gold you castIn mud. ‘Tis like a sea of inky hewBy which you are engulfed, you feel its slime,You feel the poisonous vermine bite; the gnatsThey ride your brain, your lungs are pierced with stenchOf stagnant sloughs, your heart is one big penOf maddened pangs that cry within its rooms.
And in that formeless water, that cavern ofThe mad, you think of death’s dark angel whoIs lurking near, to hold you there. The blotOf his pollution, he craves to share with you;To laugh at God’s great goodness, in pride and inDerision mocking another soul’s downfall.
Your will is struck with horror, it kindless hopes and fears,Death’s image is before you there; and loIts suffering too; you die alone, appear aloneBefore the throne of God. Your best friend you’veOffended, you see it now so clear, and hopeOnce more blooms in your heart; ’mid thunder andThe Storm you see a guiding ray of light;And on thru all that slime, you crawl to kneelOnce more in sorrow and in hope, you goTo kneel at Mercy’s feet, to hear with joyThe words of love, “Son, go and sin no more.”
WINTER—PIECE.
By Charles J. Heitzman.
Ashen and old is the wrinkled earth,Old and gray the sky;The last pale flame of the fire shoots up . . . . .The wine is bitter in the cup,The roses, shriveled, — dry, —Bitter and strained is our mirth . . . .
Blackened and ash-strewn, the hearth gapes cold,Shadows haunt the hall.The wind alternately mutters and sighs.The candle-flame flickers — dies . . . .You vowed it, I recall,“Never shall our love grow old!”