Ah, could I love thee,
Thou, the loveless o' the earth,
And pry aneath the crannies
Yet untouched by mortal hand
To send therein this love o' mine- -
Thou creeping mite, and winged speck,
And whirled waters o' the mid o' sea
Where no man seeth thee?
And could I love thee, the days
Unsunned and laden with hate o' sorrying?
Ah, could I love thee,
Thou who beareth blight;
And thou the fruit bescorched
And shrivelling, to fall unheeded
'Neath thy mother-stalk?

Ah, could I love thee, love thee?
Aye, for Him who loveth thee,
And blightest but through loving;
Like to him who bendeth low the forest's king
To fashion out a mast.