Nay, not the Fates, look higher; is God blind?
Doth He not well?
Our eyes see but a little space behind,
If it befell,
That they saw but a little space before,
Shall we then say,
Unkind is the Eternal, if He knew
This from alway,
And called us into being but to give
To mother Earth
Two blasted lives, to make the watered land
A place of dearth?
The life that feeds upon itself is mad--
Is it not thus?
Have I not held but one poor broken reed
For both of us?
Keep but your place and simply meet
The needs of life;
Mine is the sorrow, mine the prayerless pain:
The world is rife
With spectres seen and spectres all unseen
By human eyes,
Who stand upon the threshold, at the gates,
Of Paradise.
Well do they who have felt the spectres' hands
Upon their hearts,
And have not fled, but with firm faith have borne
Their brothers' parts,
Upheld the weary head, or fanned the brow
Of some sick soul,
Pointed the way for tired pilgrim eyes
To their far goal.
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