I HAVE fetched the tears up out of
the little wells,
Scooped them up with small, iron words,
Dripping over the
runnels.
The harsh, cold wind of my words
drove on, and still
I watched the tears on the guilty cheek of the boys
Glitter and
spill.
Cringing Pity, and Love,
white-handed, came
Hovering about the Judgment which stood in my
eyes,
Whirling a
flame.
. . . . . . .
The tears are dry, and the cheeks’
young fruits are
fresh
With laughter, and clear the exonerated eyes, since
pain
Beat through the
flesh.
The Angel of Judgment has departed
again to the
Nearness.
Desolate I am as a church whose lights are put out.
And night enters in
drearness.
The fire rose up in the bush and
blazed apace,
The
thorn-leaves crackled and twisted and sweated in
anguish;
Then God left the
place.
Like a flower that the frost has
hugged and let go,
my
head
Is heavy, and
my heart beats slowly, laboriously,
My strength is
shed.