Heart， you are restless as a paper scrap¹

    That's tossed down dusty pavements by the wind；

    Saying， "She is most wise， patient and kind.

    Between the small hands folded in her lap

    Surely a shamed head may bow down at length，

    And find forgiveness where the shadows stir

    About her lips， and wisdom in her strength，

    Peace in her peace. Come to her， come to her！" . . .

    She will not care. She'll smile to see me come，

    So that I think all Heaven in flower to fold me.

    She'll give me all I ask， kiss me and hold me，

    And open wide upon that holy air

    The gates of peace， and take my tiredness home，

    Kinder than God. But， heart， she will not care.

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