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 | The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown |  |
Next day the bell was toullin' for her;
And maybe it oughtn'; but sorrer is sorrer
After all; and God is a God
Of mercy—yes! I broke a sod
Of her grave myself; and the woman was buried—
The lightest coffin ever I carried.
And the Pazon read the sarvice—yis!
And—“Our dear sister,” what's this it is?
Aye, . . . and the . . . “sure and sartin hope”—
Well, I won't say nothin'—God gives the scope,
Not man; it's Him that slacks to us,
And rides us aisy—and well He does.
And maybe it oughtn'; but sorrer is sorrer
After all; and God is a God
Of mercy—yes! I broke a sod
Of her grave myself; and the woman was buried—
The lightest coffin ever I carried.
And the Pazon read the sarvice—yis!
And—“Our dear sister,” what's this it is?
Aye, . . . and the . . . “sure and sartin hope”—
Well, I won't say nothin'—God gives the scope,
Not man; it's Him that slacks to us,
And rides us aisy—and well He does.
| The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown | |