They say she speeded wanton wild
When she was warm with wine;
And so she killed a little child,
(Could have been yours or mine).
The Judge’s verdict was not mild,
And heavy was the fine.
And yet I see her driving still,
But maybe with more care . . .
Oh I should hate a child to kill
With vine leaves in my hair;
I think that I should grieve until
Life was too bleak to bear.
I think that I would see each day
That child in beauty grow.
How she would haunt me in her play.
And I would watch her go
To School a-dancing on her way,
With gladness all aglow!
And then one day I might believe,
With angel eyes ashine,
She’d say to me: ‘Please do not grieve,
Maybe the fault was mine.
Take heart,–to Heaven’s comfort cleave,
For am I not divine!’
I think I know how I would feel
If I a child should slay;
The rest of living I would kneel
And for God’s pity pray . . .
Madam, I saw you at the wheel
Of your new car today.
