Little Things

Ah, little things that grow to make life grievous,
Vain little things the frown, the quick word said,
Thy sly-curled lip poor little things that leave us
Heart-stung and nettled, turning pale and red !
Little are we, poor moths of souls that flutter
Around in semi-glooms and craving flame.
In our dim whirl, should lips the wound-word utter,
Close them with chrysm of Love's all-healing name.
For Love lives not in littleness: it reaches
Beyond all dreams of outspread, orb-lit space:
Yea, in the outer darkness it beseeches
For suns, more suns to glorify its face.