The Weekly Register

The Help That Comes Too Late.

In this weird, infamous world, this world of ours

With its tangles small and great,

Its weeds that smother the springing flower

And its hapless strifes with fate;

But though darkest day of its desolate way

Sees the help that comes too late.

Ah! woe for the word that is never said

Till the ear is deaf to hear,

And woe for the hand to the fainting head

Of the ringing shout of cheer.

Ah! woe for the laggard feet that tread

In the mournful wake of the bier.

What booteth help when the heart is numb?

What booteth a broken spar

Of love thrown out when the lips are dumb

And life's bark drifteth far,

Oh, far and fast from the alien past

Over the moaning bar?

Beautiful thing the day

That is dross and nothing worth,

Though if it had come but yesterday

It had brimmed with sweet the earth—

A fading rose in a death cold hand

That perished in want and dearth.

For baffling most in this dreary world

With its tangles small and great,

Its lonesome nights and its weary days

And its struggles forlorn with fate.

Is that bitterest grief, too deep for tears

Of the help that comes too late.

-Margaret E. Sangster in Harper's Bazar