Electra longs for her lone ideal Impatient with passion on her stoop, Unarmed before the vicious troop,- Cries from poor girl's woe for her weal. Antigone, tender to her core, Going round and round in grief Mills herself but sad relief: To kill the state with grief too pure. What value vaunts from remorse, or worse? Justice, with adamantine edge Turns crystal from a shaken tear Solidified from sighs, or worse. In a breast gone god-abandoned What good does grief reveal? What idol does a tear revere? I have not earned what rosaries condone. Never another lie to 'get along,' To manipulate the powerless, To add confusion to their duress; Never deception from the strong, Never after venial convenience to strive But all must be benign transparency And facts alone the obduracy. I resolve to struggle and to live With difficult fact and effortful truth.