The Lacking Sense Scene.--A sad-coloured landscape Waddon Vale

 I 

"O Time, whence comes the Mother's moody look amid her labours, 
 As of one who all unwittingly has wounded where she loves? 
 Why weaves she not her world-webs to according lutes and tabors, 
With nevermore this too remorseful air upon her face, 
 As of angel fallen from grace?" 

II 

- "Her look is but her story: construe not its symbols keenly: 
 In her wonderworks yea surely has she wounded where she loves.
 
 The sense of ills misdealt for blisses blanks the mien most 
queenly, 
Self-smitings kill self-joys; and everywhere beneath the sun 
 Such deeds her hands have done.
" 

III 

- "And how explains thy Ancient Mind her crimes upon her creatures, 
 These fallings from her fair beginnings, woundings where she 
loves, 
 Into her would-be perfect motions, modes, effects, and features 
Admitting cramps, black humours, wan decay, and baleful blights, 
 Distress into delights?" 

IV 

- "Ah! know'st thou not her secret yet, her vainly veiled deficience, 
 Whence it comes that all unwittingly she wounds the lives she 
loves? 
 That sightless are those orbs of hers?--which bar to her 
omniscience 
Brings those fearful unfulfilments, that red ravage through her zones 
 Whereat all creation groans.
 

V 

"She whispers it in each pathetic strenuous slow endeavour, 
 When in mothering she unwittingly sets wounds on what she loves; 
 Yet her primal doom pursues her, faultful, fatal is she ever; 
Though so deft and nigh to vision is her facile finger-touch 
 That the seers marvel much.
 

VI 

"Deal, then, her groping skill no scorn, no note of malediction; 
 Not long on thee will press the hand that hurts the lives it 
loves; 
 And while she dares dead-reckoning on, in darkness of affliction, 
Assist her where thy creaturely dependence can or may, 
 For thou art of her clay.
"

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