Alas, our earthly good
In heaven thought evil, seems too good for Thee:
Yet, sleep, my weary One!
And then the drear sharp tongue of prophecy,
With the dread sense of things which shall be done,
Doth smite me inly, like a sword—a sword?
(That 'smites the Shepherd!') then, I think aloud
The words 'despised,'—'rejected,'—every word
Recoiling into darkness as I view
The Darling on my knee.