To the grass ere they drank,
Nor the grass inquire if room is here for her and the phlox.
Yet my spirit will have it that Love is the lost meaning
of this Hate, and Peace the end of this Battle.
Why? This is revelation. Here I find God: what
power less than His could fancy such wild inconsequence
and unreason as flies out of this anguish, and
Love out of this Murder.
[Lynn, N. C., August, 1881]
I awoke, and there my Gossip, Midnight, stood