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A Proud Lady

 Hate in the world's hand 
Can carve and set its seal 
Like the strong blast of sand 
Which cuts into steel.
I have seen how the finger of hate Can mar and mould Faces burned passionate And frozen cold.
Sorrowful faces worn As stone with rain, Faces writhing with scorn And sullen with pain.
But you have a proud face Which the world cannot harm, You have turned the pain to a grace And the scorn to a charm.
You have taken the arrows and slings Which prick and bruise And fashioned them into wings For the heels of your shoes.
From the world's hand which tries To tear you apart You have stolen the falcon's eyes And the lion's heart.
What has it done, this world, With hard finger-tips, But sweetly chiseled and curled Your inscrutable lips?

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