Chapter XXXIX

I do thee wrong to mourn thee; I blaspheme
The Power that gave thee joy, that gives thee rest,
And while I chafe and fret, and sigh and dream,
Lulls thee in slumber on its sheltering breast.

This earth was not for thee, oh, not for thee
The turmoil and the wearying storm and stress,
The hungering hope deferred for good to be,
The mocking shows, the maddening lovelessness.

Thou spirit-child, for soothing formed, not strife!
Thou gracious tender joy an instant given!
Thou didst but beautify and bless our life
A little while to perfect us for heaven;

And see, for us hath life become a prayer
That we may merit grace to meet thee there.