The Whisperer

THE moon was round,
And as I walked along
There was no sound,
Save where the wind with long
Low hushes whispered to the ground
     A snatch of song.

No thought had I
Save that the moon was fair,
And fair the sky,
And God was everywhere.
I chanted as the wind went by
     A poet's prayer.

Then came a voice—
" Why is it that you praise
And thus rejoice,
O stranger to the ways
Of Providence ? God has no choice
     In this sad maze.

"His law He laid
Down at the dread beginning,
When He made
The world and set it spinning,
And His casual hand betrayed
     Us into sinning.

'I fashion you,
And then for weal or woe,
My business through,
I care not how ye go,
Or struggle, win or lose, nor do
     I want to know.

'Is no appeal,
For I am far from sight,
And cannot feel
The rigour of your plight ;
And if ye faint just when ye kneel,
     That, too, is right.'

"Then do not sing,
poet in the night,
That everything
Is beautiful and right.
What if some wind come now and fling
     At thee in spite?"

All in amaze
1 listened to the tone
Mocking my praise :
And then I heard the groan
That old tormented nature did upraise
     From tree and stone.

And as I went
I heard it once again,
That harsh lament :
And fire came to my brain ;
Deep anger unto me was lent
     To write this strain.

Insurrections [1909]