by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
When some Beloveds, 'neath whose eyelids lay
The sweet lights of my childhood, one by one
Did leave me dark before the natural sun,
And I astonied fell, and could not pray,
A thought within me to myself did say,
Is God less God that thou art mortal-sad? -- But I answer, nay!
Rise, worship, bless Him! in this sackcloth clad
As in that purple!
What child his filial heart in words conveys,
If him for very good his father choose
To smite? What can he, but with sobbing breath.
Embrace th' unwilling hand which chasteneth? --
And my dear Father, thinking fit to bruise,
Discerns in silent tears, both prayer and praise.
Source:The Poems Of Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Volume 1
C. S. Francis & Co., 262 Broadway, New York
Crosby & Nichols, Boston