That broodeth over all.
And they, athirst for comfort, sipped thy song,
But drank not yet thy deeper homily.
Not yet, but when parturient pangs grew strong,
And from its cell the young soul struggled free—
A new joy, trailing grief,
A little crumpled leaf,
Blighted before it burgeoned from the stem—
Thou, as the fabled robin to the rood,
Wert minister of charity to them;