XXIII
A poor torn heart, a tattered heart,That sat it down to rest,Nor noticed that the ebbing dayFlowed silver to the west,Nor noticed night did soft descendNor constellation burn,Intent upon the visionOf latitudes unknown.
The angels, happening that way,This dusty heart espied;Tenderly took it up from toilAnd carried it to God.There,—sandals for the barefoot;There,—gathered from the gales,Do the blue havens by the handLead the wandering sails.