The Loss Of Love Is A Terrible

We Were Not Made To Eternally Weep.

Yet Do I Marvel At This Curious Thing:/ To Make A Poet Black, And Bid Him Sing!

Not For Myself I Make This Prayer, But For This Race Of Mine That Stretches Forth From Shadowed Places Dark Hands For Bread And Wine.

Give But A Grain Of The Heart's Rich Seed, Confine Some Under Cover, And When Love Goes, Bid Him God-speed. And Find Another Lover.

I Doubt Not God Is Good, Well-meaning, Kind