By Nora May French

There is a thread from you to me?
            I know, I feel it drawing still,
A cobweb on my careless thought—
  Old habit-likeness—what you will.

Because it once was strong as Fate
  To bind a life to your desire,—
Because its knots about my heart
  Could burn me like a witch"s wire,

You will not think it loosed.  And I
  (Ah, woman soul that prayed "Destroy!")
Free from the fretting of my pain,
  Have killed the fitful strength of joy.