That blessed my hours."

"What of the child I gave?"
God said to me;
"The little, little one I died to save
And gave in trust to thee?
How have the flowers grown
That in its soul were sown,
The lovely living miracles of youth
And hope and joy and truth?"

"The child's face is all white,"
I said to God;
"It cries for cold and hunger in the night:
Its little feet have trod
The pavement muddy and cold.
It has no flowers to hold,
And in its soul the flowers you set are dead."
"Thou fool!" God said.



POEM: THE DESPOT



The garden mould was damp and chill;
Winter had had his brutal will
Since over all the year's content
His devastating legions went.