"Forgive," "give," "lead us not"—
Speak them by Him, O man the unaware,
Speak by that dear tongue, though thou know not what,
Shuddering through the paradox of prayer.
Last Poems
THE POET AND HIS BOOK
Here are my thoughts, alive within this fold,
My simple sheep. Their shepherd, I grow wise
As dearly, gravely, deeply I behold
Their different eyes.
O distant pastures in their blood! O streams
From watersheds that fed them for this prison!
Lights from aloft, midsummer suns in dreams,
Set and arisen.
They wander out, but all return anew,
The small ones, to this heart to which they clung;
"And those that are with young," the fruitful few
That are with young.
INTIMATIONS OF MORTALITY
FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD
A simple child ...
That lightly draws its breath
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?
WORDSWORTH.
It knows but will not tell.
Awake, alone, it counts its father's years—
How few are left—its mother's. Ah, how well
It knows of death, in tears.