O Margaret, thou art springtime vanished past,
And this be autumn all dead leaves and rain,
With all of mem’ry’s summer ’twixt us twain,
To think and dream forever. Forgive, my friends,
This weak unseemliness in me your pastor.
I ever did love mercy, dealt but tardily
With those who seemed to suffer more than sin,
Looked up to heaven and led my people, trusting;
And now I am brought beneath the cruelest hand
That ever pointed two roads to a man.