The Hunchback

He never knew the golden thrall of youth, The ringing step, the rumpled wind-tossed hair, The reckless laugh untouched of pain or ruth,— Youth without pity and without a care.

Not his the swift lithe strength that ever slays, And in its joyous slaying doubly sweet, Like some young god adown immortal ways, Crushing the blossoms 'neath unheeding feet.

A twisted back, a face year-scarred and grim, A very mockery to love's caress, These were the only birthright given him,— What should he know, except of ugliness?

But in his fettered heart in longing pent A wealth of tenderness and, stranger too, Youth full of pity,—ah, the wonderment,— He never knew, and yet how well he knew!