| THIS much, O heaven—if I should brood or rave, | |
| Pity me not; but let the world be fed, | |
| Yea, in my madness if I strike me dead, | |
| Heed you the grass that grows upon my grave. | |
| |
| If I dare snarl between this sun and sod, | 5 |
| Whimper and clamour, give me grace to own, | |
| In sun and rain and fruit in season shown, | |
| The shining silence of the scorn of God. | |
| |
| Thank God the stars are set beyond my power, | |
| If I must travail in a night of wrath, | 10 |
| Thank God my tears will never vex a moth, | |
| Nor any curse of mine cut down a flower. | |
| |
| Men say the sun was darkened: yet I had | |
| Thought it beat brightly, even on—Calvary: | |
| And He that hung upon the Torturing Tree | 15 |
| Heard all the crickets singing, and was glad. | |