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(16 January 1870 - 20 August 1958 / Putney / Surrey)

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On the Just and the Unjust

OUTCAST, a horror to his kind,
At night he to the forest fled.
There, the birch-bark made fire for him,
The brown fern made a bed.

The river murmured lullaby,
The moisty mosses breathed of balm,
The clean stars carried light to him,
Unterrified and calm.

Aye, as they would have served a saint
Freely all served the guilty guest.
They only saw their Father’s son,
And brought their brother rest.

Submitted: Thursday, January 01, 2004


Read poems about / on: brother, river, son, father, fire, light, night, star

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