XI.

God, God! With a child's voice I cry, Weak, sad, confidingly-- God, God! Thou knowest, eyelids, raised not always up Unto Thy love, (as none of ours are) droop As ours, o'er many a tear; Thou knowest, though Thy universe is broad, Two little tears suffice to cover all: Thou knowest, Thou who art so prodigal Of beauty, we are oft but stricken deer Expiring in the woods, that care for none Of those delightsome flowers they die upon.