WHY ARE YOU WEEPING, SISTER?

By Herbert Kaufman.

Why are you weeping, Sister?

Why are you sitting alone?

I'm bent and gray

And I've lost the way !

All my tomorrows were yesterday!

I traded them off for a wanton's pay.

I bartered my graces for silks and laces

My heart I sold for a pot of gold--

            Now I'm old.

Why did you do it, Sister,
Why did you sell your soul?

I was foolish and fair and my form was rare!

I longed for life's baubles and did not

care! When we know not the price to be paid, we

            dare.

I listened when Vanity lied to me

And I ate the fruit of The Bitter Tree—
         Now I'm old.

Why are you lonely, Sister?

Where have your friends all gone?

Friends I have none, for I went the road

Where women must harvest what men have

            sowed

And they never come back when the field is

            mowed.

They gave the lee of the cup to me

But I was blind and would not see

            Now I'm old.

Where are your lovers, Sister,

Where are your lovers now?

My lovers were many but all have run

I betrayed and deceived them every one

And they lived to learn what I had done.

A poisoned draught from my lips they quaffed

And I who knew it was poisoned, laughed

            Now I'm old.

Will they not help you, Sister,

In the name of your common sin?

There is no debt, for my lovers bought.

They paid my price for the things I brought.

I made the terms so they owe me naught.

I have no hold for 't was I who sold.

One offered his heart, but mine was cold—

            Now I'm old.

Where is that lover, Sister?

He will come when he knows your need.

I broke his hope and I stained his pride.

I dragged him down in the undertide.

Alone and forsaken by me he died.

The blood that he shed is on my head

For all the while I knew that he bled

            Now I'm old.

Is there no mercy, Sister,

For the wanton whose course is spent?

When a woman is lovely the world will fawn.

But not when her beauty and grace are gone,

When her face is seamed and her limbs are

            drawn.

I've had my day and I've had my play.

In my winter of loneliness I must pay—

            Now I'm old.

What of the morrow, Sister?

How shall the morrow be?

I must feed to the end upon remorse.

I must falter alone in my self-made course.

I must stagger alone with my self-made cross.

For I bartered my graces for silks and laces

My heart I sold for a pot of gold

            Now I'm old.

End