Mine's but a crazy head, Scarce worth the saving, if all else be dead.
And if one goes to heaven without a heart, God knows he leaves behind his better part.
I love my fellow-men: the worst I know I would do good to.

Will death change me so That I shall sit among the lazy saints, Turning a deaf ear to the sore complaints Of souls that suffer?
Why, I never yet Left a poor dog in the strada hard beset, Or ass o'erladen! Must I rate man less Than dog or ass, in holy selfishness?
Methinks (Lord, pardon, if the thought be sin!) The world of pain were better, if therein One's heart might still be human, and desires Of natural pity drop upon its fires Some cooling tears." Thereat the pale monk crossed His brow, and, muttering, "Madman! thou art lost!" Took up his pyx and fled; and, left alone, The sick man closed his eyes with a great groan That sank into a prayer, "Thy will be done!" Then was he made aware, by soul or ear, Of somewhat pure and holy bending o'er him, And of a voice like that of her who bore him, Tender and most compassionate: "Never fear! For heaven is love, as God himself is love; Thy work below shall be thy work above." And when he looked, lo! in the stern monk's place He saw the shining of an angel's face! 1864.
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