Vii

I tilt my hollowed life and look within: The wine it held has left a purple trace-- Behold, a stain where happiness had been. If I should shatter down this empty vase,

Through what abysses would my soul be tossed To meet its judge in undiscovered lands? What sentence meted me, alone and lost, Before him with the fragments in my hands?

Better the patient earth that loves me still Should drip her clearness on this purple stain; Better my life upheld to her should fill With limpid dew, and gradual gift of rain.