Methinks your rootlets, groping
Beneath the dark earth’s layers,
Have found the doubt and hoping,
The blasphemies and prayers,
Of hearts that here are feeding
The worm; and now, in pity,
Ye storm with interceding
The floor of God’s great city.
THE CRIPPLE.
I met once, in a country lane,
A little cripple, pale and thin,
Who from my presence sought again
The shadows she had hidden in.
Her wasted cheeks the sunset skies
Had hallowed with their fading glow;
And in her large and lustrous eyes
There dwelt a child’s unuttered woe.
She crept into the autumn wood,
The parted bushes closed behind;
Poor little heart, I understood
The shameless shame that filled her mind.
I understood, and loved her well
For one sad face I loved of yore,—
And down the lane the dead leaves fell,
Like dreams that pass for evermore.