He's just, your cousin, ay, abhorrently, He'd wash his hands in blood, to keep them clean.

"There is no God," the foolish saith, But none, "There is no sorrow." And nature oft the cry of faith In bitter need will borrow: Eyes which the preacher could not school, By wayside graves are raised; And lips say, "God be pitiful," Who ne'er said, "God be praised."

But since he had The genius to be loved, why let him have The justice to be honoured in his grave.

There are nettles everywhere, but smooth, green grasses are more common still; the blue of heaven is larger than the cloud.

And yet, because I love thee, I obtain From that same love this vindicating grace, To live on still in love, and yet in vain

New angel mine, unhoped for in the world!

Or from Browning some "Pomegranate," which if cut deep down the middle Shows a heart within blood-tinctured, of a veined humanity.