Holy, as I suppose I dare to call you
without pretending to know anything about you
but infinite capacity everywhere & always
& in particular certain goodness to me.
Yours is the crumpling, to my sister-in-law terrifying thunder,
yours the candelabra buds sticky in Spring,
the gloomy wisdom of godless Freud:
yours the lost souls in ill-attended wards,
those agonized thro’ the world
at this instant of time, all evil men,
Belsen, Omaha Beach,—
incomprehensible to man your ways.
May be the Devil after all exists.
“I don’t try to reconcile anything” said the poet at eighty,
“This is a damned strange world.”
Man is ruining the pleasant earth & man.
What at last, My Lord, will you allow?
Postpone till after my children’s deaths your doom
if it be Thy ineffable, inevitable will.
I say “Thy kingdom come,” it means nothing to me.
Hast Thou prepared astonishments for man?
One sudden Coming? Many so believe.
So not, without knowing anything, do I.