I question not, Belovèd, nor deny
That you had God’s own right of punishment;
Yet now my sins and days are over and spent
Find you the hours so pleasant that go by?
Would not the color of the fields and sky,
The odor of the woods, bring more content
Now, if a little pity had been lent
Then, unto love, to judge a life awry?
Upon a day the young June grasses seem
Quite still that keep the edge of the still stream;
I think you go down close to them, and say:
“O little grasses, waiting patiently,
I come to tell you this is God’s decree:
‘I comfort him who suffered yesterday.’”
