I read your truth. You read--What did you read?
Did you read all, and, reading all, forgive?
How I--O little dwarf of conscience sieve
My soul; bare all before her bare indeed!
And, looking on the remnant and the waste,
Can you absolve me,--me, the doubter, one
Who challenged what God spent His genius on,
His genius and His pride; so fair, so chaste?
I am ashamed. . . . And when I told my dreams,
Shaken and humble,--“Dear, there was no cause,”
Your words; proud, sorrowful, as it beseems
Such as thou art. There never was a cause
Why you should honour me. Ashamed am I.
And you forgive me, bless me, for reply.