BLOOD IS RED.

Some of us don't drink, some of us do; Some of us use a word or two. Most of us, maybe, are half-way ripe For deeds that would't look well in type. All of us have done things, no doubt, We don't very often brag about. We are timidly good, we are badly bold, But there's hope for the worst of us, I hold, If there be a few things we didn't do, For the reason that we so wanted to.

Some of us sin on a smaller scale. (We don't mind minnows, we shy at a whale.) We speak of a woman with half a sneer, We sit on our hands when we ought to cheer. The salad we mix in the bowl of the heart We sometimes make a little too tart For home consumption. We growl, we nag, But we're not quite lost if we sometimes drag The hot words back and make them mild At the moment they fret to be running wild.

Don't pin your faith on the man or woman Who never is tempted. We're mostly human. And whoever he be who never has felt The red blood sing in the veins and melt The ice of convention, caste and creed, To the very last barrier, has no need To raise his brows at the rest of us. It bides its time in the best of us, And well for him if he do not do That which the strength of him wants him to.