But the worst of _me_ is, that when I bow my head,
I perceive a thought wriggling away in the dust,
And I follow its tracks, quite forgetful, instead
Of humble acceptance: for, question I must!
Here’s a creature made carefully—carefully made!
Put together with craft, and then stamped on, and why?
The answer seems nowhere: it’s discord that’s played.
The sky’s a blue dish!—an implacable sky!
X
Stop a moment. I seize an idea from the pit.
They tell us that discord, though discord, alone,
Can be harmony when the notes properly fit:
Am I judging all things from a single false tone?
Is the Universe one immense Organ, that rolls
From devils to angels? I’m blind with the sight.
It pours such a splendour on heaps of poor souls!
I might try at kneeling with Molly to-night.