Yet untouched by mortal hand
To send therein this love o’ mine—
Thou creeping mite, and winged speck,
And whirled waters o’ the mid o’ sea
Where no man seeth thee?
And could I love thee, the days
Unsunned and laden with hate o’ sorrying?
Ah, could I love thee,
Thou who beareth blight;
And thou the fruit bescorched