From ‘The Soul’s Travelling’

God, God!

With a child’s voice I cry,

Weak, sad, confidingly—

God, God!

Thou knowest, eyelids, raised not always up

Unto Thy love (as none of ours are), droop

As ours, o’er many a tear!

Thou knowest, though Thy universe is broad,

Two little tears suffice to cover all:

Thou knowest, Thou, who art so prodigal

Of beauty, we are oft but stricken deer

Expiring in the woods—that care for none

Of those delightsome flowers they die upon.

O blissful Mouth which breathed the mournful breath

We name our souls, self-spoilt!—by that strong passion

Which paled Thee once with sighs,—by that strong death

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