We are given pain to balance every joy, We tragic-eyed divinities in dust. Many the hearts life bleeds with little wounds, The souls bewildered between God and lust. We know the way of pity and pity's pain; We know the unlit, endless street called Doubt; And few but walk a black way at the end, The piteous, hope-lit candles dead, burned out. Yet these are mortal wounds of mortal thorns: What of the few who suffer deadlier scars? They are worse wounded than any in the world Who bruise their lifted heads against the stars. Elsa Gidlow