⁠"And not merited
⁠The gift He gives, by the grace He sees!
The mine-cave praiseth the jewel, the hill-side
⁠praiseth the star:—
⁠I am viler than these."

Then I cried aloud in my passion, . . unthankful and
⁠impotent creature,
To throw up thy scorn unto God, through the rents
⁠in thy nature!
If He, the all-giving and loving, is served so, what
⁠then
Hast thou done to the weak and the changing, . .
⁠thy fellows of men?
⁠"I have loved," she said,
⁠(Words bowing her head
⁠As the wind bows the wet acacia-trees!)
"I saw God sitting above me,—but I . . I sate
⁠among men,
⁠And I have loved these."

Again with a lifted voice, . . like a trumpet that
⁠takes
The low note of a viol that trembles, and triumph-
⁠ing breaks
On the air with it, solemn and clear. . ⁠"I have
⁠sinned not in this!
Where I loved, I have loved much and well,—I