Who, when the blot has fallen upon their life,
Can look to heaven and think it white again—
Look up to heaven and find a something there
To make what is not be, altho’ it is.
My mother—ah, how you have spoke of this!
The dead—to him ’twas innocence and joy,
And purity and safety from the world:
To me the thing seems sin—the worst of sin.
If it be so, why are we here?—the world,
Why is it as I find it? The dull stone