Both men were suffering, not one but two.
And then that face came into view,
Gaunt and unshaved, with shadows and wild eyes,
A face of madness and of desolation. And his cries,
For all his mate could do,
Rang out, a shrill unearthly noise,
And tears ran down the stubble of his cheek.
The other face was younger, clean and sad.
With the manful, stricken beauty of a lad
Who had intended always to be glad.
The touch of his compassion, like a mother's,
Guarded the madman, soothed him and caressed.
And then I heard him speak:
"Mon frère, mon frère!
Calme-toi! Right here’s your place."
And, opening his coat, he pressed
Upon his heart the pour wet face
And smoothed the tangled hair.
After a peaceful moment there
The maniac screamed, struck out and fell
Across his brother’s arm. Love could not quell
His fury. Wrists together high in air
He rose, and with a yell
Brought down his handcuffs toward the upturned face . . .
Then paused, then knelt—and then that sound, that moan,
Of one forsaken and alone:
[5]
