by
Let me not deem that I was made in vain,
Or that
my being was an accident
Which Fate, in working its sublime intent,
Not
wished to be, to hinder would not deign.
Each drop uncounted in a storm of
rain
Hath its own mission, and is duly sent
To its own leaf or blade,
not idly spent
‘Mid myriad dimples on the shipless main.
The very
shadow of an insect’s wing,
For which the violet cared not while it
stayed
Yet felt the lighter for its vanishing,
Proved that the sun was
shining by its shade.
Then can a drop of the eternal spring,
Shadow of
living lights, in vain be made?