MEA CULPA
By Ethna Carbery
Be pitiful, my God!No hard-won gifts I bring—But empty, pleading handsTo Thee at evening.Spring came, white-browed and young,I, too, was young with Spring.There was a blue, blue heavenAbove a skylark’s wing.Youth is the time for joy,I cried, it is not meetTo mount the heights of toilWith child-soft feet.When Summer walked the landIn Passion’s red arrayed,Under green sweeping boughsMy couch I made.The noon-tide heat was sore,I slept the Summer through;An angel waked me—“ThouHast work to do.”I rose and saw the sheavesUpstanding in a row;The reapers sang Thy praiseWhile passing to and fro.
Be pitiful, my God!No hard-won gifts I bring—But empty, pleading handsTo Thee at evening.Spring came, white-browed and young,I, too, was young with Spring.There was a blue, blue heavenAbove a skylark’s wing.Youth is the time for joy,I cried, it is not meetTo mount the heights of toilWith child-soft feet.When Summer walked the landIn Passion’s red arrayed,Under green sweeping boughsMy couch I made.The noon-tide heat was sore,I slept the Summer through;An angel waked me—“ThouHast work to do.”I rose and saw the sheavesUpstanding in a row;The reapers sang Thy praiseWhile passing to and fro.
Be pitiful, my God!No hard-won gifts I bring—But empty, pleading handsTo Thee at evening.
Be pitiful, my God!
No hard-won gifts I bring—
But empty, pleading hands
To Thee at evening.
Spring came, white-browed and young,I, too, was young with Spring.There was a blue, blue heavenAbove a skylark’s wing.
Spring came, white-browed and young,
I, too, was young with Spring.
There was a blue, blue heaven
Above a skylark’s wing.
Youth is the time for joy,I cried, it is not meetTo mount the heights of toilWith child-soft feet.
Youth is the time for joy,
I cried, it is not meet
To mount the heights of toil
With child-soft feet.
When Summer walked the landIn Passion’s red arrayed,Under green sweeping boughsMy couch I made.
When Summer walked the land
In Passion’s red arrayed,
Under green sweeping boughs
My couch I made.
The noon-tide heat was sore,I slept the Summer through;An angel waked me—“ThouHast work to do.”
The noon-tide heat was sore,
I slept the Summer through;
An angel waked me—“Thou
Hast work to do.”
I rose and saw the sheavesUpstanding in a row;The reapers sang Thy praiseWhile passing to and fro.
I rose and saw the sheaves
Upstanding in a row;
The reapers sang Thy praise
While passing to and fro.
My hands were soft with ease,Long were the Autumn hours;I left the ripened sheavesFor poppy-flowers.But lo! now Winter glooms,And gray is in my hair,Whither has flown the worldI found so fair?My patient God, forgive!Praying Thy pardon sweetI lay a lonely heartBefore Thy feet.
My hands were soft with ease,Long were the Autumn hours;I left the ripened sheavesFor poppy-flowers.But lo! now Winter glooms,And gray is in my hair,Whither has flown the worldI found so fair?My patient God, forgive!Praying Thy pardon sweetI lay a lonely heartBefore Thy feet.
My hands were soft with ease,Long were the Autumn hours;I left the ripened sheavesFor poppy-flowers.
My hands were soft with ease,
Long were the Autumn hours;
I left the ripened sheaves
For poppy-flowers.
But lo! now Winter glooms,And gray is in my hair,Whither has flown the worldI found so fair?
But lo! now Winter glooms,
And gray is in my hair,
Whither has flown the world
I found so fair?
My patient God, forgive!Praying Thy pardon sweetI lay a lonely heartBefore Thy feet.
My patient God, forgive!
Praying Thy pardon sweet
I lay a lonely heart
Before Thy feet.