The pathos of a face behind the glass,
When April brightens in the grass;
The pathos of a face that, like the day,
Fades to an evening, chill and grey,
Yet has not known the universal boon
Of Springtide at the warmth of noon.
The pathos of an innocent fresh face
Seen in a lust-polluted place;
One of God's flowers among the painted flowers
That bear our image, being ours;
The face of God's own angel, looking in,
Yet without judgment, on our sin.
