We are not made of grass or reeds, That Thou consumest us like weeds;— As though we were some thorny field Or brushwood, that the forests yield. If that ourselves are nothing worth— If we have wrought no good on earth, If we are hateful in Thy sight That Thou shouldst leave us in this plight— Then blot us out;—be swift and brief, That Thy pure heart may find relief; This well may be, by Thy intent, Great Lord and good, omnipotent. How long must we in patience wait And bear unmurmuringly our fate? Let evil ones be swept away And those whom Thou dost favour, stay! A TRIAL OF ORTHODOXY (Sonnet on Armenia) By WILLIAM WATSON The clinging children at their mother’s knee Slain; and the sire and kindred one by one Flayed or hewn piecemeal; and things nameless done, Not to be told: while imperturbably The nations gaze, where Rhine unto the sea, Where Seine and Danube, Thames and Tiber run, And where great armies glitter in the sun, And great Kings rule, and man is boasted free! What wonder if yon torn and naked throng Should doubt a Heaven that seems to wink and nod, And having mourned at noontide, “Lord, how long?” Should cry, “Where hidest Thou?” at evenfall, At midnight, “Is He deaf and blind, our God?” And ere day dawn, “Is He indeed at all?” THE EXILE’S SONG FOLK SONG Belovèd one, for thy sweet sake, By whirlwinds tossed and swayed I roam; The stranger’s accents round me wake These burning thoughts that wander home. No man such longings wild can bear As in my heart forever rise. Oh that the wind might waft me there Where my belovèd’s vineyard lies! Oh that I were the zephyr fleet, That bends her vines and roses sweet. For I am piteous and forlorn, As is the bird that haunts the night; Who inconsolably doth mourn Whene’er his rose is from his sight. O’er earth and ocean, everywhere I gaze in vain, with weary eyes. Oh that the wind might waft me there Where my belovèd’s vineyard lies! Oh that I were the zephyr fleet That bends her vines and roses sweet. I would I were yon cloud so light,— Yon cloudlet driven before the wind. Or yonder bird with swift-winged flight: My heart’s true way I soon would find! Oh, I would be the wind so fleet That bends her vines and roses sweet. THE APPLE TREE FOLK SONG The door of Heaven open seemed And in thy house the sunlight gleamed.