Who are you that the whole world’s song
Is shaken out beneath your feet
Leaving you comfortless,
Who, that, as wheat
Is garnered, gather in
The blades of man’s sin
And bear that sheaf?
Lady of wrong and grief,
Blameless!
“Ourselves we do inter with sweet derision,
The charnel of the dust who once achieves
Invalidates the balm of that religion
That doubts as fervently as it believes.”