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The Homicide

 They say she speeded wanton wild
 When she was warm with wine;
And so she killed a little child,
 (Could have been yours or mine).
The Judge's verdict was not mild, And heavy was the fine.
And yet I see her driving still, But maybe with more care .
.
.
Oh I should hate a child to kill With vine leaves in my hair; I think that I should grieve until Life was too bleak to bear.
I think that I would see each day That child in beauty grow.
How she would haunt me in her play.
And I would watch her go To School a-dancing on her way, With gladness all aglow! And then one day I might believe, With angel eyes ashine, She'd say to me: 'Please do not grieve, Maybe the fault was mine.
Take heart,--to Heaven's comfort cleave, For am I not divine!' I think I know how I would feel If I a child should slay; The rest of living I would kneel And for God's pity pray .
.
.
Madam, I saw you at the wheel Of your new car today.

by Robert William Service
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