Two men sat down
Beside a fire as evening came.
The eyes of one were fixed unmoving
On the dying flame.
The other, silent, smoked a pipe
And contemplated shame.

“Shame,” said he,
“Is wretched, and makes man wretched
Who hides away their pain.”
Took he a toke three seconds long
And breathed it out again
So that it mingled with the flame.

“Shame,” said he, “Is good, and makes man good
Who to both friend and foe repent;
Who, when soul is pricked by evil deed,
When hope fails as this flame,
Run not into the shadows,
but in the light proclaim.”

The other sat unmoving still
In moonlight and by fire,
His eyes were dead, unthinking–no–
Despairing of an inward foe;
A shame which owned his soul outright,
A shame which locked his mind in flight.

“Alone,” said he, in smallest voice,
“Just like this dying flame
Which before us now sends embers up.
Alone and scared, and worried now,
About that which you spoke, the same;
That shame which makes me drink death’s cup.”

Silent sat they ‘till one red coal
Glowed softly in a heap of ash.
“One needn’t drink the cup alone,
Or fear to bare their soul;
Speak, for to sin atone;
Share with me this drink of death.”

Sat they together till morning sun
Broke gently on their face;
All grey the fire, and gone the night.
Then he cried out, in weeping plight;
The friend drew near, and wept with him;
In love He gave him grace.