I WOULD HAVE WEPT.
I would have wept with the beast,
The bird, the blossoming flower,
The hundred years of the oak.
Or the insect born for an hour,
Saying with my soul’s right:
Ah, woe for your body’s pain!
Therein you must die, and pass
Into dust, without hope of gain.
From the weary feet’s toiling to spring
To oblivion, and never to know
That the horrible pains of the flesh
You have left in the body below;
That He leaves you an heirdom of pain.
And forgets you when dropped from His hand
That had mercy for us; you would die
In your grief, could you understand.
