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I CAUTIOUS scanned my little lifeI winnowed what would fadeFrom what would last till heads like mineShould be a-dreaming laid.
I put the latter in a barn,The former blew away—I went one winter morning,And lo! my priceless hay
Was not upon the "scaffold",Was not upon the "beam",And from a thriving farmerA cynic I became.
Whether a thief did it—Whether it was the wind—Whether Deity 's guiltlessMy business is to find.
So I begin to ransack—How is it, Heart, with thee?Art thou within the little barnLove provided thee?
