Ah, could I love thee, thou,
The loveless o’ the earth!
And pry aneath the crannies
Yet untouched by mortal hand,
To send therein this love o’ mine-
Thou creeping mite, and winged speck,
And whirled waters o’ the mid o’ sea,
Where no man seeth thee!
And could I love thee, the days unsunned,
And laden with hate o’ sorrying!
Ah, could I love thee thou who beareth blight;
And thou, the fruit bescorched and shrivelling,
To fall unheeded ‘neath thy mother-stalk!
Ah, could I love thee, love thee!
Aye, for Him who loveth thee,
And blighteth but through loving-
Like to him who bendeth low
The forest’s king to fashion out a mast.
by Patience Worth
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