With being. Theirs the prayers that overflow
This vessel by whose weight my heart is bowed."
Ah, strange to see that poor, vague incense rise,
Dim supplication crossed by fragrances
Of courage, faithfulness, self-sacrifice
Even of these brute martyrs, even of these.
"Brother of Sorrows, bear to man those groans
Of a creation that I fashioned well
And gave to his dominion,—man, who owns
One morning star to make it heaven or hell.