L'Envoi to 'Hallelujah Jane'

NOUGHT is so base that Nature cannot turn
Its dross to shining gold,

No lamb so lost that it may never learn
The footpath to the fold.

Be sure this trampled clay beneath our feet
Hath life as fair as ours,

Be sure this smell of foulness is as sweet
As scent of fresh young flowers.

All is a mystery and a change, — a strife
Of evil powers with good:

Sin is the leaven wherewith the bread of life
Is fashion'd for our food.

God works with instruments as foul as these,
Sifts Souls from dregs of sense,

Death is His shadow — Sorrow and Disease
Are both His handmaidens!

Out of the tangled woof of Day and Night
His web of Life is spun:

Dust in the beam is just as surely Light
As yonder shining Sun!