You eat the heart of life like some great beast,
You blacken the sweet sky--that God made blue,
You are the death’s-head set amid the feast,
The desert breath that drinks up every dew.
And no man lives but quails before thee, Pain!
And no man lives that learns to love your rod;
The white lip smiles--but ever and again,
God’s image cries your horror unto God.
And yet--oh, terrible! men grant you this:
You work a mystery. When you are done,
Lo! common living turns to heavenly bliss;
Lo! the mere light is as the noonday sun!
--MARGARET STEBLE ANDERSON, _The Century Magazine_.
(2288)
=Pain, Cry of=--See BIRD NOTES.