Confessions

When God smote His hands together, and struck out thy soul as a spark, Into the organised glory of things, from deeps of the dark,— Say, didst thou shine, didst thou burn, didst thou honour the power in the form, As the star does at night, or the fire-fly, or even the little ground-worm? "I have sinned," she said, "For my seed-light shed Has smouldered away from His first decrees! The cypress praiseth the fire-fly, the ground-leaf praiseth the worm: I am viler than these!"

When God on that sin had pity, and did not trample thee straight, With His wild rains beating and drenching thy light found inadequate; When He only sent thee the north-winds, a little searching and chill, To quicken thy flame . . didst thou kindle and flash to the heights of His will? "I have sinned," she said, "Unquickened, unspread, My fire dropt down; and I wept on my knees! I only said of His winds of the north, as I shrank from their chill, . . What delight is in these?"

When God on that sin had pity, and did not meet it as such, But tempered the wind to thy uses, and softened the world to thy touch; At least thou wast moved in thy soul, though un- able to prove it afar, Thou couldst carry thy light like a jewel, not giving it like a star? "I have sinned," she said, "And not merited The gift He gives, by the grace He sees! The mine-cave praiseth the jewel, the hill-side praiseth the star:— I am viler than these."

Then I cried aloud in my passion, . . unthankful and impotent creature, To throw up thy scorn unto God, through the rents in thy nature! If He, the all-giving and loving, is served so, what then Hast thou done to the weak and the changing, . . thy fellows of men? "I have loved," she said, (Words bowing her head As the wind bows the wet acacia-trees!) "I saw God sitting above me,—but I . . I sate among men, And I have loved these."

Again with a lifted voice, . . like a trumpet that takes The low note of a viol that trembles, and triumph- ing breaks On the air with it, solemn and clear. . "I have sinned not in this! Where I loved, I have loved much and well,—I have loved not amiss. Let the living," she said, "Inquire of the Dead, In the house of the pale-faced Images,— And my own true Dead will answer for me, that I have not loved amiss, In my love for all these.

"The least touch of their hands in the morning, I keep day and night: Their least step on the stair, still throbs through me, if ever so light: Their least gift, which they left to my childhood, in long ago years, Is now turned from a toy to a relic, and gazed at through tears. Dig the snow," she said, "For my churchyard bed; Yet I, as I sleep, shall not fear to freeze, If but one of these love me with heart-warm tears, As I have loved these!

"If I have angered any among them, my own life was sore; If I fell from their presence, I clung to their memory more: Their tender I often felt holy, their bitter I some- times called sweet; And whenever their heart has refused me, I fell down straight at their feet. I have loved," she said,— "Man is weak, God is dread; Yet the weakest man dies with his spirit at ease, Having poured such love-oil on the Saviour's feet, As I lavished for these."