 | Ballads and other verses |  |
123
A PROTEST.
Go, sophist! dare not to despoil
My life of what it sorely needs
In days of pain, in hours of toil,—
The bread on which my spirit feeds.
My life of what it sorely needs
In days of pain, in hours of toil,—
The bread on which my spirit feeds.
You see no light beyond the stars,
No hope of lasting joys to come?
I feel, thank God, no narrow bars
Between me and my final home!
No hope of lasting joys to come?
I feel, thank God, no narrow bars
Between me and my final home!
Hence with your cold sepulchral bans,—
The vassal doubts Unfaith has given!
My childhood's heart within the man's
Still whispers to me, “Trust in Heaven!”
The vassal doubts Unfaith has given!
My childhood's heart within the man's
Still whispers to me, “Trust in Heaven!”
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