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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