The Pain of a Wounded Conscience

 •  1 min. read  •  grade level: 2
From all the down which floats on the wind,
And all the leaves from the tree,
Can ye make a couch for a troubled mind?
Can ye give sweet rest to me?
Though ye cull the dew from off the leaf,
And rob from the honey-bee;
Can ye 'suage the bitter tongue of grief?
Give a drop of sweet to me?
Let the cold wind blow through the midnight rain,
And the breeze waft in from the sea;
Can it breathe one chill on a burning brain?
Can it cool my brow for me?
Let the gale which springs in the morning cloud
Give life to all that be;
Can it quicken again my murdered mind?
Give back my thoughts to me?
Let the springtime shine with its sunny hours,
And the birds make melody;
Can ye gather, amidst ten thousand flowers,
One healing balm for me?