By Nora May French

To Reason with the praise of one I go
  To fall back, silent, at her whispered "No."

And always of the other says she, "Trust—
He doeth thus and thus, O thou unjust!"

Yet meet one eye to eye and queries end—
An eager hand goes out to greet a friend,

And let the other please me, soon or late
Wakes with a hiss the little snake of hate.