Heart, you are restless as a paper scrap
That's tossed down dusty pavements by the wind;
is most wise, patient and kind.
Between the small hands folded in her lap
Surely a shamed head may
bow down at length,
And find forgiveness where the shadows stir
About her lips, and wisdom in her strength,
in her peace. Come to her, come to her!" . . .
She will not care. She'll smile to see me come,
So that I think all Heaven in flower to fold me.
me all I ask, kiss me and hold me,
And open wide upon that holy air
The gates of peace, and take my
Kinder than God. But, heart, she will not care.