My private wilderness—how grim, how drear,
How hopeless! Surely Moses never trod
One so forsaken, so apart from God.
And his was so far off, and this one here.
But from a morbid state of loneliness,
Grief and self-pity and an empty purse,
I roused myself at last. There was a verse
That spoke of "pastures of the wilderness."
Pastures! Yes, pastures: fig and fruitful vine.
For nothing? Not exactly, but for turning
With all the heart toward Love, already Yearning
To bless each wilderness, including mine.
