WHAT help have I for thee, frail thing, Least of thy clan, Battling 'gainst fate with bruisèd wing? Albeit I hold thee in my hand, Farther am I from thee than stand The stars from man. Dost thou cry out? Dost thou make moan? I hear thee not. Thy worst pain thou must bear alone. The utmost pity on my part Can drop no balsam to thy heart. It is thy lot. And yet, more merciful to thee Than Heaven to us Through year-long plaint of agony— More kind than He, of whom in vain, Kneeling, we beg surcease of pain, I kill thee—thus. |