BECAUSE thy face is more compassionate Than God's own angel Pity, he who stands Above the world with healing in his hands, Early and late, Therefore I dare to ask a little thing. Though unto thee no man is small or great, The humblest beggar, the anointed king Of one estate, Yet, O, how often, often on thy breast The little children rest, Feeling thy sombre arms about them close As twilight folds a rose; So, even I this little prayer dare bring Unto thy pitying. I pray thee find me not my hour to go Closed within any dwelling men have made -- Those four poor walls where I may crouch, afraid As from a foe; But seek me on my hills, my hills whereon The free winds drift and blow, Between the green and gold of earth and sun, Ah, find me so! I would not quite forget, in some new birth, The joy of this my earth, Nor lose what time I look on Paradise, The vision in my eyes Of green boughs swaying in a singing wind -- O Azrael, be kind! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TWO POEMS TO HANS THOMA ON HIS SIXIETH BIRTHDAY: 2. THE KNIGHT by RAINER MARIA RILKE ADDRESS TO THE MUMMY AT BELZONI'S EXHIBITION by HORACE SMITH NEW PRINCE, NEW POMP by ROBERT SOUTHWELL THE SHOEMAKERS by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER SONNETS OF MANHOOD: 1 by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) THE SHADOWED ROAD by WILLIAM ROSE BENET TO ONE WHO HAD LEFT HER CONVENT TO MARRY by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT |