Pity Poem by Ruth Manning-Sanders

She is a spirit who has set her arms
Around the world, and every hunted ill
Draws to herself for comforting, whilst still
She shuts the way to Hell's avenging harms.

There is no path beyond that sanctuary;
And though men plant thick forests of mistrust
From end to end of the earth, and live encrust
With the black poison of their secrecy :

And though when Truth looks down they scream and crowd.
Striking at whomso stops to shade his face.
And peer between chinked fingers at the grace
Dazzling his rheumy eyes ; till murder's loud,

And war spreads out his iron-spitted net
Amid the awful darkness, and they find
Truth has withdrawn from them who willed her blind,
And not a star can shine to help them,—yet.

Fleeing and crying to the world's far rim,
Down whatso ways of ugliness they've passed.
There's never one but falling finds at last
The quiet arms of Pity folding him.