128 . On the Just and the Unjust

OUTCAST, a horror to his kind,

At night he to the forest fled.

There, the birch-bark made fire for him,

The brown fern made a bed.

The river murmured lullaby,

The moisty mosses breathed of balm,

The clean stars carried light to him,

Unterrified and calm.

Aye, as they would have served a saint

Freely all served the guilty guest.

They only saw their Father’s son,

And brought their brother rest.