Crumbs of Consolation

Musing I sat, and out of heart,
And thought the while, such grief constrained me,
That from her service I would part.
But yet one comfort still detained me.
"Comfort" 's a name, alack, of which 'tis scarcely worth;
'Tis but the tiniest scrap of comforting,
So tiny that you'll laugh to hear me tell the thing,
Yet no one's glad unless he hath some cause for mirth!
A blade of grass has cheered me now:
It says she'll deign to do my pleasure.
As children oft had shown me how,
Of that small straw I took the measure.
List, now, and mark if what it says of her be true!
"She will, she won't, she will, she won't, she will."
As often as I tried, it came out rightly still.
That comforts me, — although some faith is needed too!