Jessie B. Rittenhouse, ed. (1869–1948). The Little Book of Modern Verse. 1917.
Grace Fallow Norton
Little Gray Songs from St. Josephs
Father Saran goes by;
I think he goes to say a prayer
For one who has to die.
May say a prayer for me;
Myself meanwhile, the Sister tells,
Should pray unceasingly.
Who face to ceiling lie,
Shut out by all that man has made
From God who made the sky?
A humble heart to God:
But O, my heart of clay is proud—
True sister to the sod.
They say bends over me;
I search the dark, dark face of God—
O what is it I see?
Not kneel, who can but seek—
I see mine own face over me,
With tears upon its cheek.
Or yet my wild grandsir,
Or the lord that lured the maid away
That was my sad mother,
What gift it was they gave,
Would they have stayed their wild, wild love,
Nor made my years their slave?
From love at thought of me?
O life, O life, how may we learn
Thy strangest mystery?
Their souls, O let them rest;
My life is pupil unto pain—
With him I make my quest.
Nor can I count its days;
I do not know its wondrous law
And yet I know its ways.
And old as is the night;
O it has growth of budding flowers,
Yet tastes my body’s blight.
And far and fair and still,
Yet ever beats within my heart,
And cries within my will.
And sees life far away,
Yet far with near can interchange
And dwell within the day.
And yet it does not die;
My soul has broke a thousand faiths,
And yet it cannot lie;
My soul—there’s naught can mar;
Yet here it weeps with loneliness
Within its lonely star.
Nor hinder any hand,
Yet here it weeps—long blind, long blind—
And cannot understand.