And shrivelling, to fall unheeded
’Neath thy mother-stalk?
Ah, could I love thee, love thee?
Aye, for Him who loveth thee,
And blightest but through loving;
Like to him who bendeth low the forest’s king
To fashion out a mast.
Love for everything is the essence of her thought and of her song. And as she thus sings for the loveless, so she sings for the wearied ones and the failures of the earth:
I’d sing.
Wearied word adropped by weary ones,