Page:Hymns of the Marshes.djvu/63

 (Yet though life's logic grow as gray

As thou, my soul's not in eclipse.)

Cold Cloud, but yesterday

Thy lightning slew a child at play,

And then a priest with prayers upon his lips

For his enemies, and then a bright

Lady that did but ope the door

Upon the storming night

To let a beggar in,—strange spite,—

And then thy sulky rain refused to pour

Till thy quick torch a barn had burned

Where twelve months' store of victual lay,

A widow's sons had earned;

Which done, thy floods with winds returned,—

The river raped their little herd away.

What myriad righteous errands high

Thy flames might run on! In that hour