And, having in thy life-depth thrown
     Being and suffering (which are one),
     As a child drops some pebble small
     Down some deep well, and hears it fall
       Smiling—­so I!  THY DAYS GO ON!

     THE CRY OF THE HUMAN

     “There is no God,” the foolish saith,
       But none, “There is no sorrow;”
     And nature oft the cry of faith
       In bitter need will borrow: 
     Eyes which the preacher could not school
       By wayside graves are raised;
     And lips say, “God be pitiful,”
       Who ne’er said, “God be praised.” 
               Be pitiful, O God.

     The tempest stretches from the steep
       The shadow of its coming;
     The beasts grow tame, and near us creep,
       As help were in the human: 
     Yet while the cloud-wheels roll and grind,
       We spirits tremble under! 
     The hills have echoes; but we find
       No answer for the thunder. 
               Be pitiful, O God!

     The battle hurtles on the plains—­
       Earth feels new scythes upon her: 
     We reap our brothers for the wains,
       And call the harvest—­honor. 
     Draw face to face, front line to line,
       One image all inherit: 
     Then kill, curse on, by that same sign,
       Clay, clay,—­and spirit, spirit. 
               Be pitiful, O God!

     We meet together at the feast—­
       To private mirth betake us—­
     We stare down in the winecup, lest
       Some vacant chair should shake us! 
     We name delight, and pledge it round—­
       “It shall be ours to-morrow!”
     God’s seraphs! do your voices sound
       As sad in naming sorrow? 
               Be pitiful, O God!

     We sit together, with the skies,
       The steadfast skies, above us;
     We look into each other’s eyes,
       “And how long will you love us?”
     The eyes grow dim with prophecy,
       The voices, low and breathless—­
     “Till death us part!”—­O words, to be
       Our best for love the deathless! 
               Be pitiful, dear God!

     We tremble by the harmless bed
       Of one loved and departed—­
     Our tears drop on the lips that said
       Last night, “Be stronger-hearted!”
     O God,—­to clasp those fingers close,
       And yet to feel so lonely!—­
     To see a light upon such brows,
       Which is the daylight only! 
               Be pitiful, O God!

     The happy children come to us,
       And look up in our faces;
     They ask us—­Was it thus, and thus,
       When we were in their places? 
     We cannot speak—­we see anew
       The hills we used to live in,
     And feel our mother’s smile press through
       The kisses she is giving. 
               Be pitiful, O God!