Ina Donna Coolbrith (Ина Донна Кулбрит)

* * *

I CAN not count my life a loss,
With all its length of evil days.
I hold them only as the dross
About its gold, whose worth outweighs;
For each and all I give Him praise.

For, drawing nearer to the brink
That leadeth down to final rest,
I see with clearer eyes, I think;
And much that vexed me and oppressed,
Have learned was right, and just, and best.

So, though I may but dimly guess
Its far intent, this gift of His
I honor; nor would know the less
One sorrow, or in pain or bliss
Have other than it was and is.

1. The Captive of the White City
2. Two
3. Bret Harte (A stir of pines in the forest)
4. Meadowlarks
5. Memorial Poem

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