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Poem	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.
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