I cautious, scanned my little life —
I winnowed what would fade
From what would last till Heads like mine
Should be a-dreaming laid.

I put the latter in a Barn —
The former, blew away.
I went one winter morning
And lo – my priceless Hay

Was not upon the “Scaffold” —
Was not upon the “Beam” —
And from a thriving Farmer —
A Cynic, I became.

Whether a Thief did it —
Whether it was the wind —
Whether Deity’s guiltless —
My business is, to find!

So I begin to ransack!
How is it Hearts, with Thee?
Art thou within the little Barn
Love provided Thee?

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