THE MORAL
The youth cried in anguish: "God,
My life is bowed down beneath
Its woe! I am no mere clod—
There's fire in my blood and breath.
"You, Who made me of flesh, not stone,
Of quivering tissues—dare
You leave me to face alone
A grief past my strength to bear?
"Life might be veriest heaven,
Life can be veriest hell—
In Your hands rests what is given.
God, I hold You responsible!"
Then the man who was growing grey
Observed: "In an idle mood
God blew bubbles one day
And loosed the glistening brood
On the welkin, one by one—
Myriads of worlds they sped:
There were planets and moon and sun,
And one was the globe we tread."
Then the Spirit that Nullifies,
Men term Death, asked: "How long?" (One fears
God shrugged.) "While I blink my eyes—
Shall we say a billion years?"
* * * * *
The youth on the fable broke,
And scorn in his accents ran:
"What is all this to me? I spoke
To God of Myself, old man."