  Dear and incomparable Is that love to me Flowing out of the woodlands, Out of the sea; Out of the firmament breathing Between pasture and sky, For no reward is cherished here To reckon by. It is not of my earning, Nor forfeit I can This love that flows upon The poverty of man, Though faithless and unkind I sleep and forget This love that asks no wage of me Waits my waking yet. Of such is the love, dear, That you fold me in, It knows no governance Of virtue or sin; From nothing of my achieving Shall it enrichment take, And the glooms of my unworthiness It will not forsake. |
|
