A Sonnet

And is it so, that on this same rich earth,
Beneath the same rich sky, the same rich stars,
Great hearts can break their alabaster vase
To pour such precious ointment on our dearth,
And we still show the wizened ridge of mirth,
The dusty underwhirl of small low prayer,
The seedless dream, the interloping tare,
The loosened sapless root of aimless worth?
And can the priceless vases drop their blood,
The alabaster walls still break and start,
While we but shrink in drouth, and live no part
In nurturing a sweeter crop of food
For humankind than this poor underwood
Of old-time growth that covers our true heart,?

—M.E.H.