The other's wanton wealth foams high and brave:
The other cast away--she only gave.


_On the Prodigal._

Tell me, bright boy! tell me, my golden lad!
Whither away so frolic? Why so glad?

What! _all_ thy wealth in council? _all_ thy state?
Are husks so dear? Troth, 'tis a mighty rate!

I value the following as a lovely parable. Mary is not contented: to see
the place is little comfort. The church itself, with all its memories of
the Lord, the gospel-story, and all theory about him, is but his tomb
until we find himself.


_Come, see the place-where the Lord lay._

Show me himself, himself, bright sir! Oh show
Which way my poor tears to himself may go.
Were it enough to show the place, and say,
"Look, Mary; here see where thy Lord once lay;"
Then could I show these arms of mine, and say,
"Look, Mary; here see where thy Lord once lay."

From one of eight lines, on the Mother Mary looking on her child in her
lap, I take the last two, complete in themselves, and I think best alone.